Maggot and Madman
by Rose Moriarty
Summary: John Watson: ex-army doctor, and modern-day fairy. Sherlock Holmes: consulting detective, and a self-proclaimed sociopath. A match made in heaven, obviously. The chronicles of the fairy and his detective as they solve crimes in a London that is fast approaching the emergence of fairies from myth to reality, and maybe fall in love along the way. AU, Johnlock , T for language only.
1. The Coat

_Quick author's note: Hello there! This is my first fanfiction ever, and I really hope it goes well... It's rated T only for language, by the way. The story's pretty much clean, definitely nothing graphic or even all that suggestive, I guess... okay, well, just a head's up. I guess that if you've got something against the word "fuck" you should stop reading now... otherwise, forge ahead, please forge ahead! Also, constructive criticism much appreciated. Thanks, and have fun!_

•••

CHAPTER ONE: THE COAT

"Two twenty-one Baker Street." The voice is gruff and seeps through an accent thick as the peanut butter at the bottom of the jar, the kind of accent that turns every "th" sound into an "f" and denies the existence of the letter "h" with almost religious devotion. John's eyes flick up to the little screen – a number is already sitting there. _Oh, bugger_, he thinks. It takes him a moment – a little time to recollect the past ten minutes spent sitting in the small vehicle, watching the little people outside make their way by foot down the gum-splattered streets or into tube stations, and he wondered, _What the fuck is it all for?_ Now he just thinks, _Why?_ but it's over and done, and the cabbie's getting impatient, so his hand makes its way down to his wallet like a man out to war, and he waves a far too sizeable wad of bills a sad farewell.

He doesn't exit immediately; he looks out the window for a second, and there he is. This Sherlock Holmes person, the madman, this psychopath who knew everything about him just by looking. This man who's going to be a part of his life now, John supposes, who's standing in front of what could be his new home. _This is why_, John realizes. _I'm not just moving, or maybe moving, I'm starting my life over and goddamnit, I drove up in a fucking cab_.

The cabbie clears his throat and John realizes that he's been sitting there for far too long, awkwardly long. "Sorry," he mumbles, reaching to open the door and remembering something very important.

He starts to reach into his pocket and can feel the cabbie bristling. "Sorry, just a mo, please," he says, and slips a couple of color-changing contacts into his eyes. _You're kidding yourself,_ he thinks. _He knows so much about you already and you'll be living under the same roof and you still think you can hide this from him?_

"Shut up," he mutters, and opens the door, and steps outside.

•••

He's trying so hard not to stare. "That's a skull," he says.

"Friend of mine," Holmes tosses out nonchalantly, adding, "Why'd I say 'friend'…"

"What do you think then, Doctor Watson?" asks the motherly landlady who's been standing politely in the corner with the air of John's own mum when he used to have his mates over for slumberparties. "There's another bedroom upstairs, if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

John looks up, startled. _Wait, hold on, what?_ "Of course we'll be needing two…"

"Oh, don't worry, there's all sorts 'round here. Ms. Turner next door's got _married ones_." Before John can say another word in protest, she begins to step towards him, arms outstretched. "Here, dearie, let me take your coat for you."

_"No._" The sound erupts from his lips before he can hold it back. Ms. Hudson raises an eyebrow; Sherlock's head swivels towards him at the sound of his outburst. Inwardly, John's smacking himself. He clears his throat, unsure of what to do next, trying to shut out an age-old terror that threatens to consume him on the spot.

"I'm fine," he mutters, with a tight smile. "It's fine."

The landlady peers at him, scrutinizing him for a moment, and finally fans out her face into a kind smile. "Well, I'll leave you two alone to get settled in."

As soon as she leaves, John lets out a long breath, and looks around himself, at the flat. It _is_ nice. Not the kind of place he'd imagined himself living in – at least not for a while. Not that he was complaining, of course. _But be realistic_, he tells himself. _Can I really live here, with this person?_

Holmes' (or, rather, Sherlock's, he supposes) sharp baritone voice slices through the air and through his thoughts; "I don't mind, you know."

A pregnant moment passes; John turns and tilts his head to the side in subtle confusion. "Sorry, what?"

"I don't mind," Sherlock repeats. He looks up from his computer, which somehow found its way into his lap during the past minute or so. John can't read his expression. "It's fine. It's all fine."

"Sorry, what's fine?"

"You know what I'm talking about." He looks back down, leaving John standing and glancing around the room in bewilderment.

"No, actually, I've no idea."

"You read the news, don't you?" He doesn't look up.

"Yes, of course."

"Then you've no doubt kept tabs on all the stories that have been popping up throughout the last few years."

Still, John could only stare. "_What_ are you talking about?"

"Sightings, Doctor Watson. Sightings. Confessions, even. Rumors." Now he looks up – and yes, there is something in his eyes. "People say they've been seeing things."

"What–"

"Suzana Turner, murdered by her drug dealer, eighth of January last year," he says quickly, still without any emotion. "I was able to help out a bit."

"You–"

"I'm a detective of sorts, yes. The murder was completely transparent. But there was something interesting… about her body."

In the smallest of ways, John freezes. It is utterly insane, and it is impossible, but there it is. Sherlock can't possibly be talking about anything else, can he? Still, he can't possibly know. Knowing about his sister and his service is one thing, and it's an amazing, impossible thing, but knowing _this_ is completely different.

Because John has been hiding this from everyone in the world for twenty-eight years and he'll be damned if someone sees through him in just one day.

"What," he begins, "the _hell_ are you talking about."

Sherlock sighs. "Please stop pretending to be stupider than you are, Dr. Watson, most people start to short circuit when they descend below their normal level."

"Look. Mr. Holmes."

"_Sherlock_," the man corrects. He sighs again. "We're going to be living together, John. I suggest you give up any hopes of hiding them from me. More importantly, judging by the small beads of perspiration collecting on your brow just now, you'd _really _like to take off your coat."

John cannot do anything but stare. _Shit._ How can he possibly know? _Shit shit shit._

"You're suspicious about me because I'm not taking off my coat?" he asks, remaining as calm as he can.

"Yes. Well, that and the fact that you're wearing contacts even though you don't need glasses."

He shakes his head. "How the hell did you–"

"Never mind." He looks back down at his computer. "I'd like to make it very clear that I am not prejudiced. You're aware, of course, of the groups that are already organizing against your people; I see no reason for such hatred. What are you afraid of, Dr. Watson? Are you afraid I'll turn you in to some sort of authority, even though there is none that I know of? Are you afraid that I will see you as some sort of deformed monster, just like the your _classmates_ in _primary school?_"

The silence that hangs in the air is as heavy as lead as John stares and his blood begins to simmer, and then boil. _This is insane,_ he thinks to himself. _How can he possibly know all of this? This is insane and impossible and I will not take this bollocks for one more second._

"You're right," he says, after the pause draws itself out.

Sherlock looks up. "Right about what?"

"It _is_ warm in here," John says, his rage and indignation coolly channeled out into one laser of a sentence. To Sherlock's evident surprise, he all but rips off his coat, and the jacket underneath, and takes a breath and throws the coats on a chair and stares Sherlock down.

And this is it. He tries his hardest not to hide and/or smirk at the look on Sherlock's face; his mask of apathy remains, but the astonishment in his eyes is obvious and blatant. John smiles, to his own surprise, at the almost boyish awe overcoming this infuriating man's face – he can't help but forgive him the smallest bit for his lack of tact.

After a moment, Sherlock senses himself staring, and discreetly turns his eyes away, attempting to make it seem as if he doesn't care at all, as if it's no big deal, which it is, of course. He clears his throat. "Er. Yes." He can't seem to think of anything else to say.

"Yeah, I know," says John, not moving. "Pretty terrifying."

"No," Sherlock says, before he can seem to stop himself. He looks back up, awkwardly, for a moment. "I… what I mean is. They're. Er, well. Sort of. Beautiful, actually."

John's breath catches in his throat. His heart's pounding begins to slow as he stands in a stupor. He remembers; those kids back in school, who he thought were his friends, and all the things they'd said, and all the scars they'd left – and now here is this man, this _madman_, who sits and calls them beautiful.

"Thanks," he says, because he doesn't know what else to say.

Sherlock stares again, and John sees him, and he looks away. "Sorry."

"No, it's fine." John can feel himself beginning to relax. "It's… not everyday that you see a bloke with these big things sticking out of him like some oversized bug. I understand."

Sherlock says nothing, but reverts his focus back to his computer in silence. John continues to stand, until he walks into the other room and begins to survey the kitchen, only half paying attention, because his brain will not shut up.

_I'm John Watson, and I'm a freak. I'm half fucking fairy and I have bloody giant insect wings and I think, I just think, that I might have found someone who doesn't care._


	2. Contacts

_Author's note: Thanks for the support I'm already getting for this story, everyone! Writing a fanfic is a very new thing to me and I'm glad it seems to be turning out well. Also, __**PLEASE LEAVE A REVIEW**__ and tell me what you think because your constructive criticism can help me make this story better. Thanks, and have fun!_

_•••_

CHAPTER TWO: CONTACTS

_Saving someone's life,_ John thinks, _certainly seems to have a strange emotional aftershock._

He looks down at his hand, and back up at the mirror. Back down again, and he frowns. He's done this every morning, every day of his adult life and even some of his younger years; it's become so much of a habit that he really had to think this morning to stop himself. His hand was already halfway to his face when the thought occurred to him – and it was strange, and uncomfortable, and now he's really in a fix.

His first thought was back to last week. He didn't really even think before he'd drawn the gun and fired and hit – of course – which was what was really bothering him now. John's killed people before – not many, of course, he was just a doctor after all – but he's used a gun in his lifetime to put out someone's life like a light switch, although maybe a bit more messy, and it's never been like this.

Because there hadn't even been a question in his mind before he pulled the trigger through that window, through that dark and into the light and into Jefferson Hope's aorta. All he had seen was Sherlock in danger, and that was enough. _Bang_.

_But that's not really all_, he reminds himself, lowering his hand and the contacts case with it. _He knew, but he kept it a secret. He trusts me. He doesn't seem like the kind of man to trust people, but it's only been a week and he already trusts me._

_Do I… do I trust him?_

Before the thought is finished, he realizes that he's put the contacts back in the case and put the case back on the shelf. He finds himself looking back up, at his reflection before him, startled for a moment to see his eyes their natural color. The change is subtle, but so drastic that he almost doesn't recognize himself.

With a satisfied nod, he turns and heads out of the bathroom in his pyjamas and bathrobe. He decides he's going to make some bangers and hash for breakfast, and try to force some of it down Sherlock's esophagus.

_I guess the answer is yes._

•••

Sherlock trudges into the kitchen, drawn as if by an invisible string tied round his waist, and half-stumbles on one of the piles of case files and unorganized bits of science equipment he's got lying around. The smell of frying sausages, an aroma that would be tantalizing to any other human being, stagnates in the air around his nose. Instead, it's the sight of John that perks his head up.

Over the past week – _has it really only been a week? _– mornings have settled into a threadbare routine. Sherlock wakes up – or doesn't wake up, depending on whether or not he actually slept at all – at some ungodly hour, either far too early or far too late, and John is at the ready whenever he happens to stumble into the kitchen with some breakfast going. It confused him at first, but he could tell by John's demeanor and the looks he was getting that he must have picked up on the dire state of Sherlock's eating habits. He was a doctor after all, Sherlock concluded – it wouldn't do to have his flatmate starve to death. Still, Sherlock didn't see why John wouldn't just let him do what he pleased and decide for himself when he was going to eat (if at all.) It was irritating to the utmost.

But something's different this morning – Sherlock can tell by the way John's holding himself, and from some other, less noticeable details. Robe meticulously tied; concerned about image, even though Sherlock's the only other person in the flat. Wings held perpendicular to the ground; Sherlock was beginning to note a sort of pattern in John's body language where his wings were concerned. When he was in a neutral state, they would be inclined downward at a gentle forty-degree angle to the ground. When he was happy, more of a carefree and relaxed state of mind, his wings were higher up, reaching a one-hundred-twenty degree angle. When he was exited, they would raise up even higher, almost stretching. Lastly, when he was nervous or exceedingly self-conscious – more specifically, when he was trying to calm himself – his wings would point directly downward, sometimes almost entirely folding into his back, depending on the severity of his state.

_Extremely uncomfortable. Very conscious of my presence in the room, guarded stance suggesting nervousness and fear, possibly regret. Conclusion: he's hiding something from me._

Sherlock pauses for a moment, and watches silently. The sight of John cooking breakfast in their shared kitchen with the full intent of forcing some of it down Sherlock's throat – _two plates set out, extra sausages used, no clean Tupperware for storage of extra food, second chair cleared off, far too much pepper used for his tastes but precisely suitable to mine_ – pulls at something in his brain. He can't remember the last time someone tried to mother him like this. It's halfway between utterly irritating and… possibly touching, if he were capable of finding things touching. Annoyed, he shoves the thought away and steps forward. _I suppose I might like just one sausage._

"You slept in," John remarks, without turning around.

"Mm."

"Sleep well at all?"

"Dreadfully, not that it's at all important," Sherlock responds bluntly. "I will never understand the human obsession with sleep. I find it neither necessary nor enjoyable."

"Yet you yourself told me that you tend to do a lot of it when you're not on a case," John continues. _Purposefully avoiding turning around_, Sherlock observes.

"And you managed to remember me mentioning that over a week ago," he responds, walking over quietly and coming to stand just beside his flatmate. "Are you sure you aren't in need of something more important to occupy your brain space?"

"If we're going to be living together, I do think it's important," John says, turning to reach for something and jerking back with surprise when he find himself face to face with a tall, dark haired figure.

Sherlock jerks back in surprise as well.

For a moment, they both stare at each other, one in shock and one in apprehension, and nothing is said. The moment grows and grows, until Sherlock finally opens his mouth and breaks the silence.

"I understand why you find it necessary to wear those contacts on a daily basis," he remarks, his voice cautious but steady; "but I must admit, I much prefer this… natural color."

"Wh- really?" John didn't seem to be expecting that. "That's… Okay, then."

He doesn't show it, but Sherlock's pieced enough together about him to know that at least some part of him is pleased. "I hope you don't feel the need to wear those around the flat anymore," he says, walking away to go shuffle through some papers Lestrade dropped off the other day. "I find the very idea that you think it's important to hide yourself from me ridiculous."

"It's not ridiculous, it's practical," John says, remembering the sausages and tending to them.

"Not at all. I already know about your… species, and have already made it clear that I do not care." Sherlock continues to leaf through the papers even though he's not paying attention. "In any case, it's not a secret anymore. Why should you attempt to hide your biological differences?"

John doesn't turn around, but pauses. "Most people don't have this reaction."

"Mm, and what reaction do most people have?"

"Er… something along the lines of, 'Holy mother of god, his eyes are bloody purple. Get away, you freak, don't touch me.'"

Sherlock wonders if John can feel him tensing from across the room – most likely, not. "The color of one's irises is hardly reason at all for hysteria. It's a wonder people get by in this world at all without panicking at every change in the weather."

"I'm assuming that by 'people,' what you mean is, 'everyone except me,'" John remarks with a smirk that carries across the room in his tone.

_And you_, Sherlock adds in his head, immediately shocked that the thought crossed his mind. He shoves into the darkest recesses of his mind palace, keeping it in case it's important but reluctant to actually delete it. _What do I mean by that?_

In the next moment, the burner is turned off and the sausages are placed on two plates, and Sherlock makes his way over to the table. He might as well have a bite, he decides. And those sausages do look tasty.

John eats across from him, reading the paper. Sherlock can still see his eyes – completely normal except for the irises, a beautiful, deep violet – and his wings behind him, sixty degrees to the ground. _Yes, how _do_ they all get by_, his head repeats as he chews. _Everyone except you and me?_


	3. Mornings

Author's note: Thanks again for the tremendous support I'm getting for this story! I'm going to attempt to update every week, or maybe every other week, but I have a very busy life and I'm not sure how regular I'll be able to be. Just a heads up. Also, I've said it again and I will continue to say it:

**_***PLEASE REVIEW***_**

It would honestly make me so happy and will take 3 seconds of your life. Okay, rant over. Read on!

CHAPTER THREE: MORNINGS

He can tell by the sound of the footsteps that it's Mycroft, and his next thought is: _does he know?_ His mind does a quick spin through every bit of information his brother could have taken in as the steps make their way up the stairs. _He's only seen John once before, but that was enough for me to figure it out. Also, possibility of some sort of record from the military, which he's no doubt scoured by now. Yes, he certainly knows._

And for some reason – he realizes this as he plucks random strings on his violin, irritating the hell out of John, even though he says nothing about it – this really gets to Sherlock. Really, _really_ gets to him. This is John's secret, and no one should know it without John's permission.

With a nasty sort of jolt, Sherlock realizes that _he_ never received John's permission to know this in the first place. He found out the same way that Mycroft invariably did – by observing, and deducing. _So why am I different? _he wonders bitterly, and a bit confused. _Or am I not different at all?_

He remembers a morning two weeks ago, and relives the whole thing by the time Mycroft opens the door with one hand, umbrella in the other, and smiles the smile that launched so many flying fists in younger years – all of which were Sherlock's.

•••

John woke up quietly, because it was Saturday, relaxed a little, and jolted because it had just occurred to him that he killed a man last night.

He couldn't remember where he'd put the gun after they returned from supper, and after trying desperately (and groggily) to think of it for a while, he gave up. It would show up eventually – and even though this wasn't a particularly comforting thought, it would have to do for the time being.

He vaguely wondered what time it was, but didn't look over at the clock because he didn't really want to know. What he wanted to do was have some leftovers from the Chinese place, not have coffee, not fully wake up, and not think. Since it was Saturday, he decided to do just that.

After lying in bed for a few minutes more, he stood, slowly, so as not to get those spots all over his eyes and a pounding in his brain, and he made his way to the bathroom across the hall. He brushed his teeth. By habit, because he always did it directly after teeth-brushing, he plopped a couple of contacts into his eyes. He yawned, because it was Saturday morning and he'd just killed a man and he was tired. He walked to the kitchen.

Sherlock was in the living room, on the couch, lying down with his eyes closed. Waking up just a bit by then, John glanced over his vampire-pale arms to check for nicotine patches – negative. _Alright, then_, he thought, and set about choosing which leftovers from the fridge to microwave.

He knew from the past few days that Sherlock probably wasn't going to answer any question he posed whilst he was in one of his brain-floods (John had thought the term up this morning whilst lying in bed, half asleep) but the last thing John wanted at the moment was to be alone with his own thoughts. "You've been up all night looking into 'Moriarty,' haven't you?" he remarked. He picked out some chicken and noodle thing in a Styrofoam box.

Sherlock said nothing.

"Any luck?" John prompted.

After a long pause, Sherlock sucked in a quick breath and answered. "It's a common name, John. Or at least, semi-common. A last name is hardly enough to go on in a world full of people."

"I thought you could tell a person's life story from their shoelaces, or something," John responded, not without a bit of smugness.

"You can leave observable traces on shoelaces, John. You can't leave anything on a name." He was silent for such a long while that John resigned himself that he wasn't going to have a conversation after all, but the silence snapped when Sherlock's voice asked, "Are you alright?"

John looked over, taken aback. "Um… I'm fine, I suppose. Why do you ask?"

"Because you killed a man and then went out for Chinese."

Both of them paused for the longest time, John's brain going every direction at once and finally ending in a malfunction, and in the silence of the cars moving by outside and the heater on, he doubled over with laughter.

He laughed and kept on laughing, until his sides ached and his eyes were watering, and after a while he noticed that Sherlock had joined in, too, and both of them laughed together until the microwave timer beeped, and even then they kept on laughing until it hurt John so much that he could no longer stand.

"Oh god…" he giggled, wiping an almost-tear from his eye. "Oh _god_… no, we can't laugh, this really isn't funny."

"It is, a bit, actually," Sherlock responded from the other room.

"Yeah… I suppose it is." John started laughing again. "I killed a serial murderer after chasing you through the streets of London by using the GPS on a murdered woman's mobile, and then I stuffed myself with chicken satay and egg rolls. It's… oh my god, it's _hilarious_."

He looked over to the living room. Sherlock's eyes were opened, and he was staring at John.

John looked down at himself, trying to see if he had toothpaste all down his front or something, but upon finding nothing looked back up again. There was something in Sherlock's face that he didn't like. He felt a slight draft blow through the air, tingling the back of his neck and his wings – oh_._

_Oh._

He thought back frantically to where he'd last seen his nightgown – it was still packed in the suitcases he'd brought over from his flat last night, after supper. His wings were dangling about in the morning air, completely exposed, catching every dollop of Satdurday morning sunlight and throwing it back into the air by way of shimmery, glossy rainbows. Almost four feet long, every inch of them in plain view of anyone who happened to be looking. Sherlock, as it happened, was looking.

Both of them were silent for a moment that seemed to stretch far too long to be a moment anymore. Sherlock did not open his mouth, but looked as if he was very carefully trying to choose the right words.

"As I told you the other day," he said slowly, "I'm completely fine with it."

John nodded slightly, although he wasn't sure he believed it.

"Okay," he said. He waited for Sherlock to go on.

Sherlock said nothing, but returned to his thinking pose.

John waited a moment, and then another moment, without moving, and another moment in the same manner. He shifted uncomfortably – Sherlock didn't seem to notice.

"Er…" he began, unsure of how to continue. "Is… that all?"

Sherlock sighed. "I'm sorry, was my response unsatisfactory?"

"Well… not particularly, I suppose…"

"Then I don't see a problem." Sherlock looked over at him sharply, without getting up or moving hands from their prayer-like position. "I'm not going to pretend that they're not there, that I'm somehow above being fascinated, and then steal glances at you when you think I'm not looking. I acknowledge the fact that you have wings and that you aren't human. However, I don't find it particularly important or relevant. I couldn't care less about what species you are; as long as your intelligence is of an acceptable level and your demeanor is tolerable, I trust we'll manage just fine as flatmates."

John was frozen in place with astonishment. No one had ever talked about his… _differences_ like this, as if they were just that – differences – and not an entire description of his being. Sherlock had just acknowledged his fairy-ness, but just as a part of his identity, and a small part at that, like his dirty blond hair or Caucasian skin… no one had ever done that before. To everyone else who'd ever known, his wings had consumed the rest of him, giving him a label, making him "fascinating," making him not even a person, but a thing… and now, he felt a rush of something – bubbly, good, sweet – and stood a bit taller, feeling that on that Saturday morning, after killing and Chinese and nightmares and laughter, he had become a person.

"Don't use the blue bowls, I might have put some asbestos in one of them," Sherlock warned from across the room.

John jolted, ran across the kitchen to the microwave, popped the door open and looked inside. The bowl in which his now-lukewarm noodles sat was ceramic blue.

He sighed, and dumped it into the trash.

•••

"Sherlock," Mycroft says, drawn out with that painful smile.

"Mycroft," Sherlock says curtly.

"You've certainly made this place cozy," his brother remarks.

Sherlock says nothing. Icy silence is always his game plan when he doesn't feel like a clipping burn.

Mycroft opens his mouth, most likely with the intention of telling Sherlock exactly why he is here (most likely some dull case that Sherlock will invariably refuse to take up) but the words are choked off before they can leave his thinly smiling mouth, when John walks into the room.

John's holding a cup of tea, and is fully dressed – he likes to be dressed, even around the house, as Sherlock has noticed for no apparent reason – and his contacts are out. Sherlock is quick to notice, not without the slightest bit of alarm, that his wings are also exposed.

"Sherlock, have you seen–" he begins, but stops short at the sight of Mycroft.

A painful silence follows. Sherlock notes, with some amusement, that his brother seems to be at a loss for words.

John shuffles awkwardly. "Hello," he says, attempting at a pleasant greeting and falling flat.

Mycroft says nothing. He is very conspicuously staring at John – and Sherlock bristles.

The silence becomes more painfully awkward by the second.

"Well…" Mycroft says finally, attempting another one of his snide smiles, "this is certainly a surprise."

John's eyes flit around him awkwardly, pursing his lips in that way he does.

"I'm shocked," Sherlock says, not without a hint of smugness. "I thought you'd have figured it out by now."

Mycroft opens his mouth, shuts it again, and starts over. "You can hardly berate me for not deducing Doctor Watson's… state."

"You still haven't figured it out, have you?" Sherlock grins discreetly.

"I'm… right here, you know," John says from the other side of the room.

Mycroft stares him down through the corner of his eye and can't manage to say anything else.

"Alright, I'm done with this," John sighs. "I'm a fairy. Is there anything else you need to know or can we be done here?"

The brother pauses for a moment, smiles in his fakest way, and says, "No, that information is perfectly adequate, thank you." He turns to Sherlock, and removes something from his briefcase. "Now, I came by to–"

"I've already got a case," Sherlock interrupts flatly. "Do your own dirty work for once, Mycroft."

Mycroft sighs and plops the folder down on the coffee table. "Take a look anyway. I expect to hear back from you by the end of today."

"Enjoy your lunch," Sherlock tells him with his own scathing smile.

Thankfully, his brother departs, with a withering glance. As soon as he closes the door, John walks forward and takes a seat opposite Sherlock, in his usual chair.

Both of them look at each other for a moment, and simultaneously burst out laughing.

"Oh my god, that was horrible," John manages through the peals of laughter.

"It was," Sherlock agrees. He keeps on laughing.

"Some history I've got with your brother now," John giggles. "First he kidnaps me; second, he meets me at a crime scene right after I've shot someone; and now this. You know, I really thought he'd know about me by now."

"As did I."

"The look on his face, though… my god. I think maybe he did figure it out, but just didn't believe it, because I suppose it does seem sort of impossible? It's sort of like deducing everything about a person and all the signs point to them actually being a unicorn in disguise… I suppose at that point you just throw your hands up and go, sod it, there must be some sort of mistake."

"Most likely. He's had all the same opportunities to observe you as I have."

"I don't like the way you're saying 'observe me' …makes me feel like next, _I'll_ be the one lying on the floor with you rattling off about how I was murdered."

"Hardly. I'd have to let someone murder you first."

John looks over at him sideways, confused at first but the beginnings of a crooked smile beginning to warm up his face. Sherlock tries not to smile as well, but it slips from his lips and infects the skin on his cheeks, and it's not something that happens to his face all that often.

_Not sentiment_, he assures himself. _But… something else._

The only conclusion he can come to, and it's not really all that conclusive, is that he simply cannot recall the last time he made anyone smile.


	4. The Other Coat

_Author's Note: Thanks again for the tremendous amount of support I'm receiving for this story! I've been so pleased with the reaction to what to me started as just a silly little way to waste time. _

_ALSO: I, with my immense artistic talent (kidding), made a little coverart for this fic, which you can view on my profile._

•••

CHAPTER FOUR: THE OTHER COAT

"Can you fly?"

John looks up, startled for only a second, until he recollects himself with a resigned sigh. It's been almost a month-ish since the "Study in Pink," as John calls it, and also a month-ish since he stopped calling Sherlock "The Madman." He stopped right after the case was over, actually. The name no longer seems appropriate.

_Because he's not mad at all,_ John realized a few days earlier, in a quiet sort of mini-revelation. _I don't know what he is. But he's not mad._

_ I suppose he's his own branch of neuroscience. Let's not get too deep into it. _

The question came solidly from across the room, where Sherlock was perched on his chair in his "posh thinking pose," as John likes to call it – legs crossed, and fingertips splayed and together, just under his chin. He looks over now, and sees Sherlock staring very intently at him, waiting for an answer.

John opens his mouth, and then closes it again. He's been waiting for this question to pop up – it hasn't been posed until now, which is a surprise – and even though he's had plenty of time to think about it, he realizes that he's not ready yet to give the full answer.

So he just says, "No," and goes back to cleaning the table.

_That's the end of that,_ he thinks hopefully, but immediately comes the baritone response – "Why not?"

"I don't want to get into it. Because I just can't, alright?"

Sherlock doesn't seem happy with the answer, but doesn't say anything else. The question is not brought up again. John wishes desperately that it could stay that way, but he knows he's going to have to give an answer someday, and he does not look forward to it. Until then, it feels rewarding to have at least one part of his life remain a mystery.

•••

It's a double-homicide, and Sherlock should be a lot more excited than he is right now. John's becoming far too aware of Sherlock's behavioral patterns to let this go as a well-maybe-it's-just-a-bad-day sort of thing. Something is definitely up.

"Right, then," he says warily, trying not to let his tone show that he's got his eye on his flatmate. "Did you leave that… thing sitting in your bedroom? The last time you did, remember, it stunk up your room for weeks. I am _not_ having you sleep on the sofa again. That was a nightmare."

"I'll clean it up later," says Sherlock flatly, his mind otherwise preoccupied.

"No, you won't," says John.

"Mm-hm." Sherlock wanders off down the hallway, and John stands in the living room, sighing.

After half a minute and a text from Lestrade, Sherlock makes his way back from wherever it is that he was. He's got a grocery bag clutched in his hand, which John eyes suspiciously. He puts the bag down in order to don his coat and scarf as John waits by the door. After a moment or two of watching without realizing it, John turns away and begins to put on his own coat.

However, it's not half a second before he feels two frail but surprisingly strong hands grip the back of the jacket and begin to yank it off him.

"Hey!" He can feel Sherlock towering over him, which isn't really helping the situation at all. "What… Sherlock, stop–"

"You are absolutely not wearing this old thing out," Sherlock calmly remarks. "It's ragged and far too light. The weather is supposed to be below freezing today. I can't have you getting ill while we're on a case."

"Sherlock." John struggles to keep the coat on him, but eventually relents. The man slips the thin fabric off of him and tosses it into the corner. "Sherlock. What is this about? Really?"

"Are you accusing me of having some sinister motive, John? I am wounded by your accusation. Has it occurred to you that perhaps I care for your well-being?"

"No, actually," John says flatly, although yes, that had occurred to him. He spins around to face his flatmate, and as he does so his exposed wings whip around and whack into Sherlock's wiry frame. Immediately he pulls them closer to him, trying to make them smaller, invisible, to make them disappear altogether – that age old terror again, refusing to leave him.

He collects himself and looks Sherlock square in the face. "Well, I don't have another jacket," he says coolly. "I'll be needing that one back."

"Won't be necessary." Without another word, Sherlock hands him the grocery bag.

John takes it, reaches inside, and pulls out something black and made of rough fabric. With a sideways what-are-you-up-to look at the taller man, he holds the thing up and finds himself staring at a black coat.

"What…" he begins, but can't finish, because he realizes in an instant that this isn't just a coat, this is a _nice _coat. A cotton Haversack with a corduroy collar and leather shoulder guards; it probably cost a fortune. He slowly realizes that not only is this one of the nicest coats he's ever held (beside's Sherlock's posh Belstaff number) it is exactly the sort of coat he'd pick out for himself if he had any real money, and it looks as if it would fit him perfectly.

He stops staring for a moment, and looks over at Sherlock, who is looking just a bit too smug – but smiling. Something in John relaxes, as it always does when he sees Sherlock smile, which is something he has never attempted to explain. Despite himself, he smiles just a bit too, but more in confusion than happiness, and asks, "Alright, Sherlock, what is this all about?"

"Present," Sherlock answers immediately. "For you. From me. I got you a present. Problem?"

"Er, yeah, a bit." John eyes the coat suspiciously, and begins digging his hands through the fabric, searching for… he wasn't exactly sure exactly. A hidden bomb, a dagger in the pocket, anything. "Not sure what it is, though. Get back to you in a mo."

"I didn't booby trap it, if that's what you're worried about." Sherlock is watching him, perhaps eagerly, perhaps anxiously. "I was tired of seeing you shivering in that awful nylon rag. It didn't make you much more useful, going blue when I needed your help on a case."

John gives him a withering glance, and continues searching through the pockets. He's about to give up when he feels something wrong.

"Hold on."

He turns around the coat to reveal two long, vertical slits in the back.

His heart plummets into his stomach and everything becomes painfully clear and unclear all at once. "Sherlock…" He can't manage anything more than that. Without another word, he shoves the coat back and walks away, arching his back so that he can pull his wings in better, flatten them alongside him, anything to make them disappear.

"John, wait–" Sherlock calls after him, but John spins around and cuts him off.

"I trusted you, okay?" he snaps, with a rage and pain he didn't know he had lying in him all this time. "I don't… I thought, I really thought, that you were my friend, my god, after everything I've done for you. I guess I was just thick, wasn't I?"

"John–"

"No, you listen. You listen because I don't want to hear anything else you have to say, I don't want to have anything to do with you." John's leg spasms – he clenches his hand into a fist. "You… god, Sherlock. You were the first person in the world who didn't want to turn me into a freak show. Now you give me this, so you can walk me around like your own little fairy pet? So you could fucking show me off? God, I… Look, I'm sorry you went to all this trouble. I'm… I don't know. I just thought you were different."

As he turns again to walk to who knows where, anywhere as long as it's not right here, he feels that bony hand on his arm. He tries to jerk away, even though he doesn't want to. The hand holds firm.

"John…" That low voice comes slithering through the air, so gentle, soft in a way that he's never heard it before. John closes his eyes – he's come to love that voice, even though he shouldn't. Especially not now.

"Let go of me," he says, not as sharp as he's trying to be.

"Please. John, I… I didn't mean…" Sherlock struggles for words, something John's never seen him do before. "I don't think you're a 'freak show,' as you put it. I don't want to show you off. Please believe me, that was very far from my intent."

John jerks his arm away, and Sherlock lets go, and John says nothing.

"It isn't right," Sherlock says. He looks at his flatmate and in his eyes is the slightest hint at a vulnerability that John's never known was there. "You are the most incredible person I have ever met and you shouldn't have to hide any part of you. People shouldn't be afraid of you and you shouldn't be afraid of people knowing who or what you are. None of this is right."

They stare at each other, the silence hanging in the air between them growing heavier by the second. John opens his mouth, closes it, tries again, and succeeds.

"Sherlock…" he begins, looking away for a second and swallowing back something in his throat. "I didn't know… I'm sorry."

Sherlock nods and says nothing.

John looks up at him, and gestures to the coat in Sherlock's hand. "It's a… lovely present, I suppose, then," he says. "What I mean is… it's a nice coat. You must have gone to a lot of trouble."

"It wasn't all that much, really."

"But I can't wear it." He sees the disappointment in Sherlock's face, and adds after a moment, "Not now, at least."

Sherlock pauses for a moment, but nods.

"I'm… sorry I misinterpreted it. I didn't really think… well, actually, I did think that. I was upset that you would… Sherlock." He looks at the ground because he can't look at him just now, not yet. "No one's ever lasted this long with me. I've tried to have flatmates before, or, I dunno, friends, but no one's ever known for this long that I'm a freak and still stayed with me. I was afraid you'd. You know." He looks at him now, without moving his head. "Run away, just like everyone else."

"Don't call yourself that," Sherlock snaps with surprising force. "A _freak_. You're anything but that. And don't be stupid – why would I leave you, John?"

John looks up, startled at the innocence of that question. Sherlock looks at him with a patronizing why-would-you-even-say-something-so-idiotic expression, one John's very used to seeing by now, but in this context it takes on a completely different meaning. The fact that Sherlock can ask that question and really mean it is almost too much to bear.

It's time to tell him the truth, he decides.

"Sit down, will you?" he asks, quietly.

"John, Lestrade–" Sherlock begins, but John gives him a Look, and he reluctantly takes his place in his usual chair.

John sits down opposite him, and takes a deep breath. "You asked me a while ago," he begins, "if I can fly."

Sherlock says nothing.

"I lied, sort of," he continues. "I _can_ fly."

"I know," says Sherlock, receiving another Look for his comment.

John takes a very long pause.

"Sherlock…" he goes on, his voice breathy and almost a whisper, "I haven't flown in three years."

Sherlock nods. "That would be, since you were discharged."

"Since I was shot, actually."

"Close enough."

"Will you please stop being so… so _Sherlocky_ for just one moment and listen?"

Sherlock says nothing.

John looks at him. "I don't intend to ever fly again."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "John…?"

"I can't. I just can't." He closes his eyes and tries to block out the memories that are flooding back, just like his nightmares, more brutal now that he's awake. "I almost died when I was shot. I was about five minutes from death but I pulled through. I really thought I was going to die." He squeezes his eyes harder. He's not going to cry – not even close – but the light in the room is suddenly painfully bright. "I wasn't just shot in regular combat. I was shot by one of our own soldiers. A British soldier, Sherlock. I knew him. I was shot because… he shot me because of what I am. He was ordered to by one of the generals. They thought I was dangerous. They wanted to kill me – like I was vermin. A pest. Or some wild animal. The entire troop wanted me dead."

Sherlock is completely silent, but John can see something building up behind his eyes. Is it… anger?

"It was right after I saved all of their lives," he goes on, having fought back whatever was rising in his throat and now talking calmly. "I stopped a bloody _missile_ in bloody _midair._ I literally chased a heat-seeking missile several thousand feet above the ground and drove it into a mountain. It was the most dangerous, fucked-up thing I have ever done and I'm pretty sure I did it on pure adrenaline. And so the troop takes advantage of the whole mess and the confusion to try to murder me."

Sherlock looks away – John suspects it's because he doesn't want him to see whatever's on his face.

"I used to think," John goes on, "that maybe I wasn't so different. And if I _was_ different, that's okay. There are other people in the world like me. I could be part of human society and still be a fairy at the same time. I used to think that people would come to their senses after a while and see that I'm just like them. But I'm not." He sighs. "Getting shot was a wake-up call. It was hitting rock bottom. I've always been afraid of people knowing what I am, and now I know why. It's because no matter how much I act like a human on the outside, I can never be a fairy on the inside, because people will see through me and they'll hate me and want me dead. It's a nice thought, Sherlock, that I could go out in public like… _this._" He gestures to himself – all of himself. "But I can't. I can't fly again, ever, because the only way to have people treat you like a human is to _become_ human, and that's just the way it is and there's nothing you can do about it."

In the following silence, John's phone chirps. He picks it up; it's a text from Lestrade. _You two coming?_

He texts back, _In a few minutes. _

When he looks up, Sherlock's standing by the door. He's holding John's new coat in one hand and his gloves in the other. He offers the coat to John. "Please."

John sighs, and shakes his head. "I'm not ready. I'll never be ready."

Sherlock doesn't move. "Promise me," he says, his voice not betraying anything. "Promise me that someday you'll wear it."

John doesn't like making promises. Especially not promises he doesn't know he'll be able to keep.

However, the one thing he's come to understand over the past couple of months is that Sherlock seems to be the exception to everything.

John promises.


	5. Three It's and a Bitch

CHAPTER FIVE: THREE IT'S AND A BITCH

He can't really remember the last time he felt this uncomfortable. The tension in the room is choking him – infecting his system with every breath he sucks in and turning to cotton in his trachea. Sherlock's still running about the flat, deducing every single speck of dust he can lay his ravenous eyes on, but he's lost a little bit of his enthusiasm for it in the past half a minute. Lestrade's standing in the corner talking to some police officers that John doesn't recognize. Donovan's still nowhere to be seen.

John had asked Lestrade about her a few minutes ago, where she might have gone off to – he'd had no idea. Inwardly, John is immeasurably grateful; after what has just happened, he thinks he might vomit if he saw her again anytime soon.

He feels painfully aware of the throbbing beneath his jumper.

Sighing, he rolls his shoulders back and shifts on the dusty, well-stained couch. Woven into every second that he spends in public is a dull undercurrent of the throbbing ache that comes with practically pinioning his wings against him with fabric. The pain in itself isn't really so bad – what he hates is the constant reminder of what he is, the soreness that ensures that he will never forget that he can never be human. If it weren't for that ache, he tells himself, he might just be able to slip into a sort of trance as he goes about his daily activities, never wondering what that strange feeling on his back was, never questioning his humanity, his _personhood_, and never, _never_ thinking of what it would be like to fly.

Never feeling like your best friend was possibly the only person in the room who wouldn't immediately start to dissect you if they knew what you were.

He sighs, a long, deep, satisfactory sigh, and rubs his fingers against his temple. _You are such an idiot._

He's got a lot of thinking to do, he decides. Might as well; there doesn't seem to be a lot going on right now. Lestrade's still giving him wary glances every once in a while. John begins to panic, only slightly, but relaxes when he takes into account everything that just happened, and decides that Lestrade can't possibly know. The man must have a lot on his mind – it was probably nothing to worry about.

For just a split second, John wishes more than anything else that he was wearing the coat Sherlock had presented him with a few hours ago.

He immediately pushes the thought away, labeling it "impossible" and trying his best to forget about it. The notion creeps back, though. Somehow, sitting in this murder-tainted flat with the smell of death and premature mourning stagnating in the air, the idea of being surrounded by fabric that consists of nothing but Sherlock's compassion for him seems like the most appealing idea in the world.

Opening his eyes with a snap, he clears his brain of any more thoughts about Haversack coats and any compassion John's hopeful brain had imagined that cold, calculating Sherlock might possess. _That was a silly idea_, he thinks to himself. The man was a self-proclaimed sociopath, for god's sake… although John was not only spotting holes in that theory, but gaping voids.

Skipping forwards a bit in his brain, he thinks back to not fifteen minutes ago. Did he miss something crucial, something that everyone had seemed to grasp but him? He runs the scene over and over again in his head, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach and the spots that threaten to cross over his eyes like the kind of shooting star you can't wish on.

Yes. He does indeed have a lot to think about.

•••

It had started off as a perfectly average case: ridiculous circumstances, and completely impossible to explain. It was a double homicide, Lestrade explained when they first arrived – two women inside a locked bedroom, one of two in the flat they shared. There was absolutely no sign on either of the bodies of something that could have caused their deaths – an autopsy showed that neither had been poisoned, and were both in good health. Naturally, Sherlock was beside himself with boyish glee.

He set to work immediately, listing off this and that about the woman. "This one, Esme Hamilton, was a nanny, ran a part-time daycare in this flat," he began. "The other, Linda Mason… accountant, but always wanted to be a novelist. She wrote children's books in her spare time. They both live here together. Both of them were single – Hamilton recently broke up with her girlfriend of one year. Mason had one… no, two children, from a past marriage, but she's not with him anymore… he's dead, but she's not a widow. He died after she left him. The children live here but are currently in Wales on vacation with Mason's brother."

John nodded, but said nothing. He was used to this sort of thing by now.

Sherlock knelt to inspect the bodies more closely. "There's no sign of a struggle, or any type of physical trauma. John…?"

At the sound of his name, John stepped over to the dead body and inspected it – he felt around it, around the head and scalp, smelled the mouth. "I can't see any signs of a struggle, either," he said after a moment. "No bruises or anything. It's like… she just… _died_."

Before he placed the woman's head back down (even now, he never felt comfortable staring a dead person in the eyes) he noticed something. Something small, and most likely incredibly unimportant, something about her eyes, which he had opened with his index finger whilst inspecting the body.

She was wearing contacts.

_You are utterly ridiculous_, he told himself. Still, the back of his neck began to tingle. _Loads of people wear contacts. The chances are miniscule. You're too hopeful._

John gingerly placed his fingers on the small transparent disc, holding his breath as he cautiously plucked it out of Esme Hamilton's eyes.

He let his breath out slowly.

"Sherlock," he said, quietly. He said it again, louder this time. "Sherlock!"

"John, can you come here, please?" Sherlock responded.

John sighed. "Sherlock… no, you really need to come over here first."

"John. You… you really need to see this."

John perked his head up, and stood. Sherlock was kneeled over Linda Mason's body on the other side of the room. As he walked over, Sherlock turned his head to the detective inspector.

"Lestrade, I'll need you to leave for a moment," he said sharply.

Lestrade was taken aback. "I'm not going to bloody _leave for a moment_. This is _my_ crime scene, I'm breaking all the rules just letting you in here _supervised_."

Sherlock seemed ready to argue, but decided against it. John crouched down next to him and looked to wear Sherlock was staring.

"I don't see…" John began, but trailed off.

Linda Mason's shirt was a little askew in the back – she was on her side. The fabric was stretched out a little strangely, awkwardly, as if there was something stiff underneath that was pushing it out. John's eyes traveled down the folds of fabric until… until…

"Holy…" he breathed.

Sticking out of the bottom of her shirt was the tiniest flash of transparent something, a sort of glossy rainbow skin that John knew like the back of his hand. He gently pushed the fabric of the shirt up a bit, and then a bit more, until he was staring at the all-too-familiar rounded tips of a pair of wings.

"What are you looking at over here?" Lestrade walked over, his arms crossed, peering, and before John could push the fabric back down again, Lestrade had already seen it.

He stopped short, paused, leaned down, and pulled the shirt up as far as it could go, exposing the woman's back and her bra strap, and almost all of her wings.

"What the hell…" he muttered. Sherlock and John exchanged a look – should they explain? They would probably have to.

"What _is_ this?" Lestrade asked again. He reached out a hand to push the shirt farther up, until they could all see the bases of her wings; the areas where the insect melded into the human flesh, as John used to think of it. Lestrade's mouth dropped a little in shock, just the slightest bit, and John felt overexposed. His skin was crawling and his wings were feeling far too big and far too _there_, as if _he _were the one on the floor being examined and prodded at. As discreetly as he could, he reached a hand behind himself to check that they weren't sticking out of his sweater – no. He looked at the back of Linda Mason's head, and shivered a little – was she a true fairy, the more magic kind, like him, or a half fairy, like his sister? Was she able to fly? The irony hit him hard enough that he giggled a bit, in a solemn way; this was the first time he'd ever seen another fairy in person, one that wasn't related to him, one outside of his extended family, and she was sprawled on her side with three strange men kneeling over her, deciding how she died.

Suddenly, he remembered something. "Sherlock…" he said, quietly, but not whispering. "The other one, too. Esme Hamilton."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Purple eyes."

Without warning, Sherlock bolted across the room to inspect the other body. Within a matter of seconds, he announced, "She's got wings, too."

Lestrade seemed to come out of his stupor. "Wait, stop, _what_ is going on here?" he said, crossing his arms again and giving them both very frustrated looks. "Is this some kind of joke?"

"Unfortunately not," Sherlock said, looking over at John, who was trying desperately to telepathically send him the message, "You can tell him about fairies. Just don't tell him about me." Sherlock seemed to get the message somehow, because the next moment, he said, "John, would you like to explain?"

John sighed, but nodded reluctantly. Lestrade was looking at him with the biggest WTF expression John had ever seen – _This should be fun_. "Okay…" He wondered how the hell to begin saying this. "So, basically, fairies are real."

Lestrade drew out the pause far too long for it to be comfortable. "Are you on something?" he asked.

_Oh bugger. Here we go again. _John looked over at Sherlock for help, but he had pulled out his magnifying glass and was looking at Hamilton's fingernails. "Er," he started again, "I know it's really hard to believe. And actually very ridiculous sounding. But… you know, you saw it for yourself…"

"I'm serious, John."

"So am I."

"So you're trying to tell me," Lestrade said, drawing out the sentence in order to convey his skepticism, "that this… woman, is actually a fairy? A bloody fairy?"

"Um. Yes, actually. Yes."

"Oh god." Lestrade sighed, and threw his hands up in the air. "All this time I thought you were actually a normal, sensible bloke…"

_If only you knew_, John thought bitterly. "Look, do these wings _look _fake?"

Lestrade sighed again, and crouched down next to the body to inspect them again. John crouched down with him. "They… _don't_ look fake," Lestrade said reluctantly, running his fingers along them carefully. "Don't feel fake, either. But you just can't possibly expect me to believe… bloody _fairies_, John."

"I know it's ridiculous," John agreed. "But how could you possibly deny it, when it's literally lying right in front of you?"

"Because you're telling me to believe in a fairy tale," Lestrade answered, sounding less and less sure of himself by the second. "Some things are just impossible, John. This is one of them."

"They used to believe that moving pictures were impossible."

"That's different," Lestrade protested. He looked back down at Linda Mason's wings – John swallowed, pulling his own wings closer to himself underneath his sweater. "That's science."

"Well, maybe this is, too." John sat down next to the body and began looking it over, checking for any marks or clues that he hadn't seen before. "Maybe it's just biology."

Lestrade was silent.

"Think about it like this," John continued. "There used to be more species of humans then there are now. You know – Neanderthals. You see them in museums all the time. So why couldn't there be a species of human that could fly, maybe, and instead of dying out they just sort of… blended in with _homo sapiens_? Maybe there were so few of them that they sort of became myth, and people turned them into something magical and so now people don't believe in them. Why is that so implausible?"

After a moment of stiff silence, Lestrade opened his mouth, paused, and spoke.

"How do _you_ know so much about them?" he said.

_Shit,_ John thought, thinking as fast as he could. "I had some friends, back in Afghanistan. They were fairies. We fought together."

Lestrade thought for another moment. "And these… fairies, they… they act like humans?" he asked hesitantly.

Something deep inside the pit of John's stomach starts to twist and curl. The way Lestrade said "act like humans," had sounded a lot more like "impersonate humans," as if fairies were deceitful, and trying to fool people to infiltrate society, instead of just blend with it.

He straightened himself up and pursed his lips. "They're just like humans," he said. "They're people. Just… they've got wings."

Lestrade creased his eyebrows, unbelieving. "And… they can _fly_?"

John nodded, trying desperately not to think about flying – what it felt like, how much it had been a part of him, how much he ached, every single day, to do it again. How a sickening feeling that overcame every cell in his body reminded him each time that he mustn't, couldn't, and won't.

Lestrade sighed, a resigned sigh, and he pulled himself off of the floor and stood, towering over where John still sat with Linda Mason's body. Sherlock looked up from his post at Esme Hamilton, waiting for Lestrade's response – John realized that he had been listening in to the entire conversation.

"You two deal with this," he said, shaking his head and turning. "I need to think."

John nodded, although Lestrade didn't see – Sherlock waited until he was out of earshot before he spoke.

"I think he took that rather well," he said.

John stood, shaking his head. "I don't think so."

"Well, we avoided any histrionics – I'd say that alone is a good start."

John wasn't convinced. "Did you hear the way he talked about them… about… _us_? It was like he didn't even think fairies could be people."

"He was shaken, John. Give him time, he'll come around."

"He was talking about _me_," John persisted, still not convinced. "Even if he didn't know it. I can't tell him, ever, if that's what he thinks about fairies. If he knew, he'd never treat me the same way again."

"Don't be absurd. Lestrade–"

"–is just like everyone else in the world," John finished, spitting out the words as if they'd been swelling in his salivary glands, filling his mouth up and stagnating until they were expelled with a final _ptooey!_ "You don't understand, Sherlock. People don't treat me the way you treat me. You're different. People _hate_ me, Sherlock. I know you think that's irrational, but people _are_ irrational. And I know you don't think I should let what happened in primary school get to me. But I was _tortured_. No one spoke to me, not even teachers, or adults. I was just a _kid_ and they treated me like I was dangerous. That's how people are, and it's how they always will be. If someone's different, and they're a way you can't understand, you label that person a monster because there's nothing else you can do. Lestrade _won't _come around – don't tell me that he will. Not everyone can be fucking special like you, Sherlock. Don't act like you understand what it's like to have everyone who knows the real you be afraid of you, because you will never, _never_ know what it's like."

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, but nothing seemed to come out of it.

Barely containing a sigh, John turned around and stared out the window at nothing in particular. He could hear Lestrade talking outside, but couldn't hear what he was saying.

The baritone voice slithered past his ear so quietly that he almost didn't catch it at first.

"I do know what it's like," Sherlock said.

John turned back, looking his flatmate in the eyes. There was something on his face that John couldn't quite place – it looked sort of sad, but not exactly.

Sherlock looked at him in a way that felt less like looking _at_ him and more like looking _into_ him. He held his gaze for a second, then cast his eyes down to the floor. "You're not the only one who's a monster."

John opened his mouth to speak, with no idea what he was about to say, when suddenly Lestrade walked back into the room. Donovan was with him.

"Right," he said, looking back down at the two bodies and putting his hands on his hips. "Donovan says she knows these… fairies are for real, so I guess that's that."

"I dated one, once," she said, in her casual yet generally insulting tone. "Dumped it as soon as I found it was one of these things. It actually tried to take me home, the freak."

_It._

John's knees felt weak and his skin dropped a few degrees – he felt like he was about to vomit.

He looked over at Sherlock, needing… needing something, comfort, maybe, support, and saw that his flatmate was standing stock still, barely breathing.

"_He,_" Sherlock said, his voice smooth but with the intensity of a laser. John knew that voice – it was the pinpoint tone of Sherlock's rage, concentrated and channeled into a razor-sharp verbal blade.

Donovan seemed oblivious to Sherlock's dangerous tone. "What?" she said, her body slouched in a way meant to convey just exactly how few fucks she gave about anything.

"_He_ tried to take you home," Sherlock continued, standing up straighter. "Unless this person was a _she_ – you did neglect mentioning a gender, although I can only assume that you're going to stand by your as-of-yet unquestioned heterosexual status."

Lestrade drew in his breath, confused but aware of the storm that was approaching. Donovan crossed her arms.

"I don't even know if they _have_ genders," she said, raising an eyebrow but keeping her eyes halfway closed in boredom.

"I should have expected as much from you," Sherlock retorted, spitting out the last word in the same way he said words like "normal" and "emotion." "You meet a person who's just a little bit different, so you immediately label them a freak just so you can feel better about yourself."

Donovan seemed taken aback, and John was frozen to the spot. Something occurred to him – he remembered the first crime scene he'd been to with Sherlock, the first time he'd met Donovan. She'd dismissed Sherlock immediately, casually tossing out, "Freak's here," as he walked into the building. He hadn't looked fazed by it at all, as if it was something he was used to – which was maybe the point.

Something told him that maybe Sherlock wasn't only talking about fairies just now.

Within another moment, Donovan pulled herself back together. "Why are _you_ so upset about all this?" she asked, looking Sherlock up and down. "I wouldn't be surprised if you were one of them or something."

"I'm not," Sherlock said, his voice still that blazing inferno of ice. "I don't need to be a fairy to understand that they are as much of people as any of us are. Probably more so than you."

Donovan wasn't fazed in the slightest. "So what, you think that they're human or something?" she scoffed, not hiding her disgust.

"No." Sherlock's eyes narrowed, but his face remained perfectly composed. "I think that you didn't tell the _entire_ story. Ithink that you weren't just dating this fairy – you were engaged to him. Judging by the marks on your finger, your undershirt and your hand soap, I'd say that _he_ was the one who dumped _you_ when you were disgusted with him, and you feel so bitter about it that you feel compelled to lie and make it seem like he wasn't _human enough_ to deserve you."

Donovan was silent for a long time. John looked over at her, and sucked in a breath – she seemed to be shaking.

"I don't care what you think," she said finally. "Yeah, you're right, we were engaged. But if there's anything I should be ashamed of, it's of being fooled by him for so long. He tricked me into thinking he was human, and I fell for it. These _things_ don't think like people and they _aren't_ people. I don't know why the fuck you think that they are. I guess that freaks stick up for other freaks, don't they?"

Lestrade started to say something, but she held up a hand and he held his tongue. She marched out of the room, clenching her fists, still seeming to shake.

A pregnant moment passed. Lestrade let out a long breath.

"She…" he began, but stopped, unsure of what to say next.

The silence carried on a bit longer.

"Look, John," he said finally, closing his eyes and sighing again. "You seem to know a lot about these thi– _people_, right?"

John nodded. He prayed that his stomach wouldn't try to force his lunch back up his throat.

"Are they… are they really just like humans?" he asked.

"Yes," John said immediately. He needed at least one person to prove to him that maybe the entire world wasn't out to kill him. He needed Lestrade to erase the glaring echo of "it" that was branding itself onto his brain.

Lestrade sighed for the third time. "I trust you, then," he said, clearing his throat and putting his business face on. "Donovan will sort herself out. Meanwhile, we've got two dead bodies that can't have possibly died – let's get on with it, then."

•••

Sherlock plops down next to John – just a bit too close, perhaps, but his brain is flying in far too many directions to notice such an irrelevant social marker. For a split second, he can see Lestrade smirk in his peripheral vision, and ignores it after taking a moment to register what it means. He only moves closer to John, as if to spite the world.

"How are you faring?" John asks, looking up.

Sherlock doesn't answer directly. John knows full well what's running through his head right now, so he needn't bother sparing the breath to only reiterate what is most likely obvious. Instead, he only huffs. "This is absurd, John."

"I know."

"There is _no possible explanation_."

"No, there isn't."

"_None_, John."

"I know."

Overtaken by a sudden burst of frustration, Sherlock swivels to look his friend in the eye. "This has _never happened before,_ John," he emphasizes.

To his irritation, John chuckles. "You've been stumped on cases before," he says.

Sherlock bristles – this is hardly the time to be reminded of his past failures. "This is different, John. There is absolutely no indication to a cause of death. I have checked for literally every single type of poison known to the human race, and each test has come up negative. There is no sign of a struggle or any type of injury, both women were in perfect health. It's as if they literally just dropped dead."

He waits for John to understand his frustration, but – to his even further frustration – his friend seems to be deep in thought.

"What?" he practically snaps, sitting up straighter.

John opens his mouth, closes it again, and looks at Sherlock with that scrunchy-eyed expression he gets when he's just thought of something, that expression that really shouldn't be as endearing as it is. Sherlock scowls to himself, shoving the thought away.

"Every type of poison known to the human race?" he asks.

Sherlock nods, wondering where this is going.

"The _human_ race?" he repeats.

Realization dawns on Sherlock, immediately followed by confusion. "John…" he says, his tone low and warning – "What are you thinking?"

With a long, long sigh, John looks up at him. His face is resigned.

"I think it's time we give my sister a ring," he says.

•••

•••

_Author's note: So I decided to start putting these AN's at the END of the chapter instead... just seemed to make more sense, I dunno._

_Anyway._

_So I'm super sorry for the lateness of this chapter! I've got a very busy life, what with final exams and final projects and things to deal with. Also, my computer was broken for a couple of weeks. So. Here it is!_

_Also, big announcement: This fic has officially reached __**1,000 VIEWS!**____Er mah gerd! This is a huge deal for me and I am so pleased by how much you lovely people seem to be enjoying this silly story of mine. I love all of you! :) Thank you for being wonderful!_

_Until next time, my dahlings. Hopefully the next chapter will be more on time, but I can't make any promises._


	6. Dring

CHAPTER SIX: DRING

•••

After god-knows-how-many years of being drunk-dialed by more people than he can count, John has reached the point where he can hear intoxication on someone's breath through the phone lines before they even mangle their first word. This time, however, it's different – he can _feel_ the inebriation seeping through the thin receiver, a physical substance that squeezes itself out of the miniscule grate and makes it way down his ear canal.

Oh god. He knew this was a horrible idea.

After a beat, during which John imagines the strong smell of alcohol and drool, a stupendously wasted voice slurs from the other end, "Yallo?"

John sighs in what may be part exasperation and part resignation. "Harry… we talked about this just yesterday."

"Wha'?" comes the response. The pathetic tone is pleading for innocence.

He sighs again. "Where did you even get that… whatever you're drinking?"

"Scotch. Mmmmm."

"Right. Whatever it is. _Where_ did you get it?" He closes his eyes, imagining a number of scenarios, all equally bad. "We cleaned out your cupboard _yesterday_. I thought you gave me all the booze. Did you… oh god, you were hiding some somewhere, weren't you?"

She pauses for far too long. "Noooo," she answers, dragging the word out until it was hardly a word anymore. She giggles.

"I… fine. I'm coming over later, just so you know, and stripping down every floorboard if I have to," he tells her. "It's just… I really needed you sober right now, Harry. It's really important."

Harry pauses for a very long time. "Are... 'r you ma' a'… a' me?" she says quietly, almost whimpering.

For a moment, John feels a pang of guilt, but brushes it off and goes back to being irritated. "Er, a little, yeah," he huffs, remaining as calm as he can. "I really thought you were going to be better about this, you know. The _one time_ that _I_ need _you_ instead of the other way 'round, and you can't even…" He trails off, wondering why his throat is starting to constrict. "Never mind."

"Was juss _wwwun_ dring," she protests. "One issy-bissy li'ul drink."

"Yeah, sorry if I don't believe you."

Harry says nothing.

John sighs again. "Fine. Fine. You know what, it can wait. Just don't drink anymore for now. I'll call you when you're sober."

"I... cin be, righ' n… now."

Pulling in a sharp breath, he spits out his answer immediately – "No. Don't you dare."

"Aw, c'mo-o-on... I've... done i' bef're."

"No. It's not safe." He's gripping the phone a bit too tightly now – the sharp edges are digging into the flesh of his fingers. "You shouldn't – _no one_ should ever cast spells when they're drunk. _Especially_ on themselves, for god's sake."

"I can... can do it."

"Harry. _No._" He's beginning to panic.

"Watch..." she says, and before John can even cry out, he hears a _woosh_ coming from the other end and then a sort of _thwack_. After a few tense seconds in which John wonders if his world has just been torn apart, a quick and most decidedly _not_ drunk voice quips from the other end – "Ta fuckin' da, little bro."

He sighs, for what seems to be the hundredth time in the past minute. Sherlock, still sitting next to him, leans over with a quizzical look, asking "What's going on?" with his eyes. Silently, John responds – "Nothing. I'll deal with it," and turns back to the mobile.

"Please stop doing that," he says into the receiver, using his irritation and years of military training to mask the slight tremor in his voice. "That isn't safe. You're going to hurt yourself one of these days."

"Hm. One of these days," his sister says with a patronizing laugh. "You sound just like Dad, Johnny. 'One of these days you'll fall off that skateboard and break your neck, Harriet.' 'One of these days, you'll fly into a power line and get electrocuted, John.' Well, little brother, that day hasn't happened yet, and I'll tell you what – if it does, I owe you a fiver."

John puts his head in his hands. While a drunk Harry Watson is a force to be reckoned with, a sober Harry Watson could rival even Sherlock Holmes himself.

"I'm serious, Harry," he says. "I know you think you're better at all this magic stuff than most people, but… it's just logically not safe."

"Oh come on. Spell-casting while drunk? Trust me, I've had enough practice." Harry says the last bit with just a hint of despondency, but immediately goes back to her sarcastically cheerful self. "The worst it's ever done for me is amplify my hangover, which should start in three, two... _ow._"

"It doesn't matter if you've perfected this sobering-up spell down to a 'T', Harry. It's just too dangerous, no matter how practiced you think you are."

"You underestimate my abilities, kid brother."

"And _you_ underestimate the power of single-malt whiskey."

"Enough pleasantries." John can hear a shifting sound in the background, and imagines his sister sprawling out on her favorite corner of the well-stained couch that John had seen her sleep, jump, and cry on. "You said you wanted something. What?"

He takes a deep breath. "Sherlock and I are on a case–"

"Sherlock?" She laughs, heartily. "Your psychopath boyfriend?"

_Oh god_, John thinks. "He's not–"

"Your boyfriend, I know, I know. You can keep saying that, no one believes you."

John opens his mouth to correct her, and realizes what he's about to say, and what just happened in his head. "I was going to say that he's not a psychopath," he tells her.

"Are you sure?" She thinks about it for a moment. "Well, sure, whatever, you know him better than I do. He's probably got Asperger's or something. I mean, Clara has Asperger's."

John jerks back his head in surprise. The last time his sister talked about her ex-wife, she was sobbing into his shoulder and clutching an empty bottle of scotch – how could she be so casual about it now? He had spent enough years as her brother to know full well that her nonchalant attitude was just a mask for whatever she was really feeling on the inside, which was most likely the only kind of pain John had never felt himself and a thirst that could only be quenched by some _aqua vitae._ He also knew that she would, under no circumstances, reveal her true inner thoughts to anyone but him, and even that took some work – and occasionally some imbibing, although he avoided that method at all costs.

"So..." she goes on, breaking him out of his thoughts – "You. Your boyfriend. What's going on? Did you get in a fight? God, you're not breaking up, are you?"

John closes his eyes. "Har... no. I... it's about the _case_, Harry."

"Oh." He can hear her fiddle with something on the other end. "Not nearly as fun."

"Since when do you call meddling in my relationships 'fun'?" he asks, bristling.

"A-_ha!_" she shouts, louder than she really should. "So you've finally stopped denying that you two are in a relationship?"

_Fuck_, he thinks. _Fuck everything. _"No, I mean... that's not what I meant. I... in general, I mean. It wouldn't be the first time you've tried to make my girlfriend hate me, would it?" _Wait, what did I just say?_

"Ha!" she shouts again. "So he's your _girlfriend_ now, is he?"

"Sod off, Harry," he sighs.

"Okay," says Harry, and hangs up the phone.

•••

It's only when John puts the mobile back in his pocket that he notices Sherlock, who hasn't moved from his side. He jolts just a little, but relaxes, all over the course of a nanosecond or two.

"What happened?" Sherlock asks.

John lets out a breath. "She was just… her usual cheery self."

"You didn't seem to get what you wanted from her."

"No." John looks at him with a look that he's seen on Sherlock's face so many times, at any mention of Mycroft. He supposes there must be some sort of universal look for younger siblings to use when their sisters or brothers got irritating, which was most of the time. "She got mad, it seems, and pulled a complete Harry Watson and just hung up on me."

"Are you going to try to call her again?"

"No. I knew this was a bad idea."

Sherlock pauses for a moment, and John can see the cogs in his brain working. He looks as if he's debating whether or not to bring something up. "What did you mean about that?" he asks, after a while. "About… spell-casting?"

John shifts uncomfortably in his seat and closes his eyes, trying not to sigh – again. "She's… well, she's always been really good at spells and things. Ever since we were kids. She used to lord it over me as much as she could – I mean, I can't cast a spell to save my life. I sort of mean that literally." He laughs, a little. "Anyway, I guess it's sort of a trade off – I got the wings, she got the magic." When Sherlock says nothing, John continues, fully aware that he's going into a bit of a rant. "She's learnt every spell I've ever heard of, and a handful of others, including this sobering-up spell she's got mastered. Except, it's supposed to be used on _other people_, never yourself. Harry of all people should know that you should _never_ cast spells when you're drunk, or when you're in any other state that compromises your cognitive facilities. But she's… she's, you know, she's Harry. She has no common sense, and she never listens."

Sherlock says nothing.

It's only after a few minutes of complete silence that John realizes that something is very wrong.

"What's going on in there?" he asks, with a nod towards Sherlock's brain.

His friend stays silent for another moment or two.

"Magic?" he says finally.

John stares at him, and stops breathing when he realizes what he's just done. _You, John Watson_, he thinks, smacking the insides of his skull_, are a true idiot._

_You just turned his entire world upside down and you didn't even realize it._

It takes a true expert to decode Sherlock's emotions just by looking at his face, as they're buried in the subtlest of twitches and twinges and facial irregularities – in other words, it takes a John Watson. As John peers into his friend's eyes now – the two men so close together and yet miles apart, one behind the other as per usual but with the order switched – he sees a mass of confusion pulsating like the deepest throngs of a crowd, and he sees what might be fear, and what is definitely distress, and something else that feels so much like drowning.

Sitting back and breathing out, he can see it plain as day – Sherlock's brain folding in on itself, a tidal wave of right and wrong, the hideous and slow suicide of self-doubt. "When you eliminate the impossible," he remembers him saying once, "whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

John knows in one painful moment that is crushed by the weight of letting down the person that matters most to you in the world; he know that what he's just done has ensured that Sherlock will never be able to eliminate the impossible again.

•••

Sherlock doesn't say a word for the entire cab ride back to the flat, partly because he has nothing to say but mostly because he feels like any sound he tries to force up his throat would choke him. John glances at him warily from time to time, but still Sherlock says nothing. It's only when the two of them reach their living room and John is peeling off his loathsome nylon coat that he lets his thoughts erupt from his lips, like they've been trying to do for the past half an hour.

"How do you do it?" he practically yells.

John jumps, and turns towards him. He looks sad – so sad that Sherlock almost calms down. "Do what?"

"_This!_" Sherlock screeches, waving his hands in every direction, gesturing to the floor, ceiling, windows, and the incredible, infuriating, impossible man standing in front of him.

John coughs. "You'll have to be more specific than that."

"How do you live, every day of your life, knowing that…" Sherlock falters as his insides start to slow their turbulence. "Knowing that…" He's going to have to say the word sooner or later. "Knowing that _it_ is real?" Later, then.

John's expression is reeking with sympathy, and Sherlock feels a surge of anger. "I grew up with it, Sherlock," he says, gently. The softness of his voice pulls at something deep in Sherlock's chest – he can feel himself loosening, relaxing, coming apart. "I never really thought about magic as something special, or impossible. It's just… it's a part of life."

"But what _is_ it?" Sherlock hisses, trying to channel his rage from before but finding his supply of fury somewhat depleted. "You can't expect me to believe that there's just some sort of… some sort of _force_ that lets impossible things happen with no explanation whatsoever."

John shakes his head. "There are lots of branches of magic, just like in science," he begins, but seems to think better of it and starts over. "Think of it like this: what we call science is the bits of how the Universe works that can be explained through mathematics. But the Universe is a lot more complicated than just mathematics. There are lots of other parts of how the world works that can't possibly be explained in numbers, and because of that most people can't understand them. Those are the parts we call magic."

Sherlock says nothing. His brain is racing and racing and racing.

"Most people think seem to think that magic is just, I dunno, wave a wand and say funny words and things that aren't supposed to happen happen," John continues. His tone is cautious, as if he is stepping over an emotional minefield. "But it's just science, like I said. There are lots of different branches and they all work in different ways. If you can figure out how they work, and learn how to manipulate them, then… that's doing magic. That's what spell-casting is. That's all it is."

His voice is attempting to be comforting, but Sherlock is far from comforted. He stares in front of him, looking at his flatmate as if he's never seen him before – which he's not entirely sure he has.

It is a very long time before he finds his voice again.

"I… believe so much for you," he says, his words far weaker than they had sounded in his head.

John says nothing.

"Impossible things," Sherlock continues. "I believe in impossible things like… fairies, or _magic_. Illogical things, things that should never be taken seriously. But I believe in them now and it's all because you told me to, and because you need me to. I can never know anything for sure again and it's all because I _trust_ you and I do not for the life of me know why."

John is quiet for a very long time.

"I'm sorry," he says finally, and in his voice is a kindness that makes Sherlock ache.

He looks at the shorter man, and wonders how long it's going to be before he loses him, before he makes him rot from the inside out and pushes him away. The thought makes him feel cold, sick, and so tired. He closes his eyes.

"I'm going to bed," he mutters, and stalks off down the hallway without even bothering to take off his coat. If he did, he'd have to turn around and look John in the face, and John might see his heart beating through his eyes; that little organ going faster and slower than usual, all at once.

•••

•••

Author's Note: Sorry it's been such a long time! I've been pretty busy - finals, not failing my classes, the like. I tried to update last week but I was positively swamped with homework, so there's that. It's been a pretty rough month so updates will (hopefully!) be more regular in the weeks to come.

Also, introducing the lovely Harry Watson! I keep really wishing that they'll bring her into the show because I think that she would be a sarcastically fabulous BAMF. Also, yay lesbians. They're just the best, amirite?

Until next time, my dahlings. Moriarty out.


	7. The Golden

CHAPTER SEVEN: THE GOLDEN

_Cold,_ John thinks.

_Why is that important?_ he wonders.

An hour later, he realizes why.

•••

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asks. He lies on the couch, splayed out, his arms visibly itching from the (forced) lack of nicotine patches. He didn't look up when John rose from his seat, but now he blinks his recently opened eyes at the sight of John donning his jacket near the door.

"The morgue," John says, and throws Sherlock's coat on top of the detective without any further explanation. "You're coming, too. Get up."

Sherlock bolts upright and starts slipping his arms into the sleeves. "What–"

"I've been an idiot," John says, walking towards the door. Sherlock sees him glance discreetly, almost wistfully at that present, that coat, that's still slung over the back of a chair in the living room; untouched since Sherlock presented it to him that very morning. Again, Sherlock feels that uncomfortable tug somewhere near the back of his ribcage that he's been feeling all too often for the past couple of weeks – and again, he ignores it.

He snaps out of his thoughts when he hears John continue, the two of them walking down the stairs in tandem. "I told you that I couldn't do any spells," he says, reaching the bottom floor. "Well, that is pretty much true. But there is one sort-of magic-y thing that I can handle, although it's not exactly a spell, and it's not anything special, since most fairies can do it anyway and it's basically comes naturally."

Sherlock stares at him, his mind going blank. John turns and opens his mouth to speak, but stops when he sees his flatmate's expression.

"What?" he asks.

If Sherlock's breathing, he can't feel it. More thoughts than usual are racing around in his head, and not the good kind – the bad, nonsensical, personal kind. _How is it,_ he thinks, _that every single day you just keep becoming more and more incredible?_

Instead, he just asks, "What's the spell?"

John purses his lips, and tilts his head. "Have you ever heard of the lith?" he asks.

•••

"Take us the long route," John tells the cabbie. "We're going to need some time."

The cabbie gives him a look, but nods and turns back to the wheel.

Sherlock settles down beside him. He looks at John expectantly, trying to mask his pure childlike curiosity with an expression of indifference – which might've worked on anyone else. Sherlock says nothing, but waits for his flatmate to speak.

John takes a deep breath. This is going to be one hell of a cab ride.

"It's a very complicated concept…" he begins hesitantly. "I've been learning about it all my life so it'll be a bit difficult to explain in fifteen minutes or so…"

Sherlock says nothing, but his eyes urge John to cut to the chase.

John nods to himself. "Do you know," he says, "when people say, about two people who really like each other or get along very well or maybe love each other, that they've really got a bond?"

After receiving a small nod from his flatmate, he continues.

"Er, the thing is…" He falters. "It's a real bond. When two people love each other, in any way, shape or form – they could be siblings, or a parent and a child, or friends, or, married, or something – there is an actual, physical bond that exists between them. But, it exists on a different physical plane than people do, so we can't see them or interact with them. But they're everywhere, floating around, invisible to the naked eye." He glances out the window, his eyes drifting over all the people outside. "There are thousands of these things, connecting you to everyone you care about, and connecting everyone in the world to someone else, somehow. Most people have lots of them, one for every person they love. And it just sort of… floats about, between the two people it connects. It's like a giant spider web that you can't see, but it's everywhere. They're called the lith."

He turns back to his friend, inwardly appreciating the rare occurrence of Sherlock's face looking genuinely confused. The man is staring at him so intently, with so much wonder, that… something. That _something_ – definitely something. John doesn't know quite what. Something behind his ribcage.

He shakes his head. _Anyway_.

"A lith is sort of like a big ropey thing that starts at one person and snakes about until the other end connects with the other person," he continues. "It's made out of lith energy, which comes in the form of lith strands. They're these tiny little strings of lith that float about randomly in empty space, until they find two people who've got some sort of emotional connection. If the connection is strong enough, one end of the strand latches onto one of the people and the other end latches onto the other person, and that starts a new lith. As the two people get closer and closer emotionally, more lith strands will join on and the lith will keep growing. So the bigger the lith, the bigger the bond between the two people. Does this make any sense to you?"

"Yes," Sherlock says. "And I can't possibly believe a word of it."

John nods. "Great. We're doing just fine, then."

After a moment or two spent wondering what he should say next, he continues. "Lith energy is…" he begins, and stops, wondering if there's any possible way to say what he's about to say without sounding like some awful song from the eighties, synthesizer and all. "…well, it's basically, what it is is… it's basically the energy of love. God, that did sound awful, that sounded even _worse_ than what it sounded like in my head. What I mean by that is, lith energy is this force that makes up a good part of the universe – it's half energy, half matter. Some sort of in between magicky thing. It's a positive energy that for some reason is extremely attracted to sentient life. The more aware the life form, the more the lith is attracted to it – that would explain why lith energy seems to be most affiliated with humans and fairies. What happens is, it sort of… well, it surrounds us and weaves itself into our beings and our souls, if you want to call it that. And our brains interpret the lith energy that we're feeding off of as things like happiness, and love, mostly. Love is just what we call the feedback of lith energy. It's the lith energy being filtered through our brains."

Sherlock opens his mouth, and keeps it open for a moment or two before speaking. "So what you're saying is," he begins, "that love is just physics? Love is some mathematical energy that neurons translate into emotions? That seems very unlike you, John, to say something like that."

John sighs and shifts uncomfortably. "That's… not really what I mean," he says. "Love isn't physics, and it isn't chemicals, either. Just the same way that lith energy isn't mathematics. The lith aren't just a force, or an equation. They're part of the fabric of the universe. What I'm saying, I… what I mean is, what we call 'love' is our very simple minds trying to comprehend the entire universe being thrust into our brain and making us a part of everything there ever was and is and will be."

Sherlock watches him for a moment, and settles back in his seat, looking forward. "How very poetic of you, John," he scoffs.

John sighs. "I should have known you weren't going to take this seriously."

"I _am_ taking this seriously. I am very interested in this concept – however, I do not think that there is any particular need for sensationalist language and extended metaphors."

"It's not a metaphor," John responds, growing slightly irritated. "That's literally what this stuff is. I know that this is hard for you to understand, but you don't have to be a complete pretentious prick about it."

"I'm not being pretentious."

"That's a good one, Sherlock."

Sherlock is silent for a moment.

"How does any of this connect to the case?" he asks.

"Oh, right." John collects his thoughts again. "Er, see, the thing about lith is that they do a lot more than just connect two people. They sort of bury themselves in the people they're attached to, and become entangled with that person's own energy. So, sometimes that person's… soul, sort of, leaves fingerprints on the lith, and vice versa.

"The thing is, fairies are naturally closer to lith. Just sort of… more in tune with them, I guess." He adjusted himself in the seat and continued. "Humans are a physically based species. You're far more likely to die from a knife wound than a broken heart. But fairies are the opposite. We're an emotionally based species. A fairy could actually die of greif, if it was bad enough. I mean, yes, we can still be hurt and killed physically… but we have ways to fix our physical selves when they're not so badly broken. And even when we can't heal ourselves, it's still different."

He's aware of Sherlock staring at him far too closely, and he clenches his hand. "You were shot," Sherlock says, saying nothing more.

"Yeah. That. Well." He pauses. "There's a reason my limp's psychosomatic."

"And what is that?"

John closes his eyes. "Not now, Sherlock. Just… later, alright?"

He can feel Sherlock nodding beside him.

After a moment or two of relative silence, he jolts back to reality with a bump in the road and jerk in the cab. "Erm… right, I was going somewhere with this. Hang on. …Right. What I mean to say is… what I'm getting at with all of this is that I can sort of… not really _feel_ the lith, but sort of… I dunno, sense them. Just a little, the tiniest bit. It's sort of a… warmth. Just, everywhere. All over my skin, when I get close."

Sherlock peers at him out of the corner of his eye. "Didn't you say that there are thousands of liths crisscrossing across the world, constantly?"

"Well, yeah, there are," John concedes. "But some are bigger than others, you know, a bit more warm. It's like when you walk into a cold spot of air and then into a warm spot. And like I said, it's just a really small feeling, I barely notice it."

At this, Sherlock finally turns to look him in the eye. "So what did you notice?" he asks. "At the crime scene."

John pauses, thinking. "When someone dies, their lith don't go away immediately. It takes the lith ages to finally detach and float off – but that's only if one person on one end of the lith dies. If one person dies and the other stays alive, the lith might hang around the dead person for a while, like it doesn't somehow… get the message, that that person is dead. Sometimes it can take years for the lith to detach, and then it takes years after that for the other end to get off the person who's still alive. But when both people on either end of the lith die at more or less the same time, give or take a few days or months, the lith between them sort of… supernovas."

"Supernovas," Sherlock repeats.

"Er, yes." John nods. "What I mean is, it sort of… collapses in on itself, just one big collision of lith energy with nowhere to go. It makes a sort of burst of… whatever it is the lith gives off, which gives someone like me a whole lot of that warm feeling. The excess warmth can take months to fade away."

He stops for a moment. "Where are you going with this?" Sherlock asks.

"Where I'm going is, they were flatmates for a long time, weren't they?" John tilts his head. "And you could tell that they were in love, couldn't you? I mean, _I_ could, and I'm not the world's only consulting detective."

Sherlock nods.

"So they'd have a pretty big lith, right?"

He nods again.

"And… they died on the same day as one another?"

Another nod.

John peers up at his friend. "Then why was the room stone cold?" he asks.

"St. Bart's Hospital," the cabbie announces. "Took the longest route I could – mind you, mate, it's gonna cost you."

•••

"I knew her, sort of," Molly says, with that slightly-painful smile of hers. "That one, Esme Hamilton. My niece, Sophie, went to her daycare once. She was nice."

John opens his eyes and gives her a small smile, to fill the deafening silence of Sherlock not caring in the slightest about anything she had to say. The detective stares at the two bodies, looking for all the world as if he's trying to see the invisible. His eyes narrow.

Standing aside, John watches his friend scrutinize the cadavers, and eventually closes his eyes. He lets his breathing slow, and concentrates.

Cold. The room is… cold. It smells like death and feels like the end. There's a small spot of warmth to his left – Molly's few lith, drifting off through the walls and under cracks in the doors. He tries not to focus on Sherlock. He's not exactly sure what he'll find, and he's not sure if he really wants to know.

Opening his eyes, John takes a step and peers over the bodies. They look just as dead as any other cadavers he's seen, and he's seen quite a few. Hesitantly, he reaches his hand out into the air above them; he jerks it back, his pulse quickening.

"What do you feel?" asks a voice behind him. John jumps – a bit more tense than he'd thought he was, apparently.

"Er – nothing," he answers. Sherlock's face appears beside his. "I can't feel anything at all. It's completely cold."

"Aren't they supposed to be cold?" asks Molly, who John hadn't realized was listening in. "They… they are dead, after all."

"It's complicated," John answers.

The room is silent for a moment. Molly shrinks off to the corner.

"Golden," John mutters.

Sherlock looks over. "What?"

The fairy shakes his head. "Nothing, I…" He breathes in, and turns. "Just… golden. Golden light."

For a moment, it seems as if he can feel Molly tensing across the room – he glances in her direction, and she doesn't look any different.

"My sister… she can see them, sometimes." He sighs. "Just another thing she used to hold over my head. She knows spells that can let you see them, just for a little while, until it wears off. They're really complicated so I… she says they look like golden light."

Sherlock turns his eyes to the empty space above the stiffs. "Golden light?" he repeats.

"Big, sort of, ropey things." John casts his eyes to the floor. "Like bridges going from one person to another, made out of pure golden light."

The miniscule symphony of glass breaking shatters the quiet in the small room. The two men whip around towards its source; Molly is standing in front of a smashed beaker lying in fragments on the ground, her arm outstretched and fingers splayed, her face slackened with the weight of the world turning in her mind.

John steps over to her, quickly. "Are you alright?"

She can't seem to find the strength to nod. After a moment or two of her mouth hanging open – "You know about them, too?"

His breath hitches in his throat. "About… what?"

Molly swallows, and holds his gaze. "The Golden."

"The…" he begins, and falters. His heart is pounding faster. _Almost no humans know about the lith – but every fairy child learns about them when they grow up. So the only way she could possibly know what I'm talking about is if she's…_

_if she's…_

"Golden," she says, her voice shaking. "I'm sorry, you… you were talking, about, golden light. I… are they… big, and they move, and they grow when you love someone?"

John nods.

"Oh my god." Molly starts to wobble, and John grabs her arm, motioning for Sherlock to take the other. The two of them manage to get her to the only chair in the room, where she slumps over herself and – much to John's shock – begins to weep.

"Molly, are you… are you alright?" he murmurs.

Her sobs only grow louder.

Two minutes later, she's still crying. Sherlock tries to walk off, but stays when John shoots him a death glare and mouths something along the lines of, "She's our friend and if you leave now I will bloody murder you." After half a minute more, she runs out of fuel and begins to slow to quiet, half-choked gasps.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong?" John asks.

She nods, and when she looks at him, against all odds, she is smiling. "I thought… I was the only one," she chokes out. Tears still dribble down her face. "Oh my god, so many years I thought. So many. I just… can't believe. Oh my god."

John says nothing – neither does Sherlock.

"Everyone said I was mad," she says. Her voice is small and pitiful. "Growing up, you know. _I_ thought I was mad. But… they're real?"

"Yes." John takes a deep breath. "They're called the lith. They're real."

"The… the _lith._" Molly repeats. She chokes down her last sob. "I always just called them the Golden, since I didn't… I didn't know what to call them."

"You mean no one's ever told you what they are before?" Something doesn't click in John's brain. "But… you still knew about them?"

"You're the first person who's ever known about them." She looks like she might break down again.

"A lot of people know," he tells her. "They're very real."

"I thought I was the only one who could see them," she says, starting to cry.

John's mouth drops open. His breathing stops for a moment or two. "_See_ them?" he asks. "You can… _see_ them?"

"Yes. Can't you?"

"No." John stands up – his mind is malfunctioning. "No one can just… _see _them. Do you mean, you use the spell so you can see them?"

Molly wipes her eyes and looks up. "Spell?" she repeats, confused.

"You don't… cor, nevermind." He covers his face with his hands and breathes deep. "Molly, you can't just… you can't just _see_ the lith. _No one_ can do that, no one ever has, ever."

"Then how do you know about them?" she asks.

"My parents told me!" he answers. "Didn't _your_ parents tell you about them when you were little?"

She looks at him as if he's gone off the deep end. "My parents were the first ones to call me mad!" she says.

John shuts his eyes and puts a hand to his temple. _This doesn't make any sense. None of this makes any sense. _When he opens his eyes, both Sherlock and Molly are staring at him, both of them waiting for him to make the next move.

_Then make the bloody move, Watson._

"Alright." He steps over to Molly, looking her in the eye and seeing what he needs to know. "Here's what we're going to do."

"What…?" Molly asks.

John takes a deep breath. "We're both going to take out our contact lenses," he says.

Molly's mouth drops open, slightly. "Wha… John, wh…. why?"

"Molly, take your contacts out," he commands.

She jerks back, affronted. "No!" she squeaks – John can see the same fear he feels every day growing in the back of her eyes.

"That's why," he answers. "And also because I also don't want to take mine out, possibly for the same reason."

Her eyes widen almost imperceptibly. John notices.

"So, er, on the count of three then," he decides. "We both take them out. Alright?"

After a moment, Molly nods.

"Okay." John swallows, and lifts a hand to his eye. "One… two… three."

He pulls his eyelid up and squeezes the tiny lens, pinching it out of his eye. It falls into his hand, and he looks up.

"Oh my god," he says.

"Oh… oh wow," Molly gasps.

"They're–"

"It's _purple_," she says, in awe.

"…golden," John finishes. "They're… _golden._"

•••

John shuts his eyes against the glare of not understanding. "You're human?" he asks, rounding on the woman in the lab coat. "Really?"

She steps back. "I… of course I'm human! What else would I _be?_"

"Okay, and what, then? You can just _see_ lith? All the time, everywhere?"

She nods. "Am I not supposed to be able to do that?"

"I don't know," John admits. "No one's _ever_ done it before. It's supposed to be impossible. Harry used to do research on it, she said so herself that it was just a legend."

"Why did you ask if I'm human?"

He opens his eyes, and looks up. Sherlock is standing a few feet away from them, behind Molly, and now he meets his friend's gaze. _Are you going to tell her?_ he asks silently.

_I don't know_, John responds.

He's still debating this when he remembers something important; he turns back to the impossible woman.

"What about these cadavers, then?" He nods his head at the table behind them. "What can you tell me about their lith?"

"Huh? Oh!" Molly jerks herself back into reality. "Um, I… I don't know, really. I was very confused when they were brought in."

"Why?" asks Sherlock, stepping up from behind. "What was unusual about them?"

"Well…" she begins hesitantly. "See, I work with cadavers a lot, so I've noticed… when two people die at the same time, there's usually–"

"I know how it works." John cuts her off. He squints his eyes at the two bodies. "So, er… what was wrong with the lith? With these two?"

"Well… the thing about the lith is…" She swallows. "I'm not exactly sure if this is right…"

"We haven't got all day, and we've wasted enough time as it is," Sherlock snaps. John steps on his foot.

Molly gives him a nervous smile. "The thing… about the lith is," she says. "The thing about it is that there isn't one. There's no golden around either of the two bodies. Whatever was in them, or made them people – it's all gone. There's just… nothing. Nothing at all."

•••

_Author's note: So just another thanks to all the wonderful people who are enjoying this story; I'm now well over 2,000 views, and almost 50 followers! It's been what, two months since I started this? Well anyway, I love you all, thank you for reading and staying patient with me. _

_If you've got anything to say at all - questions, comments, concerns, good things or bad things - __**please leave a review**__ because I depend on reader feedback! Your comments help me shape the story._

_Until next time, my dahlings! _


	8. The Headache

CHAPTER EIGHT: THE HEADACHE

For the first time in a long while, three a.m. has arrived without the slightest hint of drowsiness. John's mind is acute to the point of being painful. Across the room, Sherlock shuts his laptop with a snap – the sound stabs straight through his skull. He winces, slowly opening his eyes.

Sherlock's looking over at him, twisted around in his creaky chair, one elbow on the table. "What?" John asks, almost snapping.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock inquires.

John rubs his temple and breathes out, slowly. "You never ask if I'm alright."

"That's because I can usually tell," the man answers. He moves his body around so he doesn't have to twist his neck. "But here I am. Asking. Are you going to give me an answer or am I going to have to figure it out on my own?"

"Why do you care?" John mutters. "You never care about anyone, why start now?"

Sherlock pauses for a long while before asking, "Are you angry with me?"

John sighs. "No, I… sorry. Didn't mean to snap at you. I'm… a bit on edge."

"Why?"

"Why do you keep asking?"

Sherlock says nothing. John leans his head back against the wall behind the couch, and tries to focus on his breathing, eyes shut. The sound of a chair scraping backwards pierces his sore eardrums – he sucks in a breath at the pain – followed by footsteps, getting closer until–

"Sherlock, what–" he mumbles, but the detective's already plopped himself down next to John, merely sitting at first but then curling himself around him, yanking John's shoulders towards him and wrapping his arm behind his head. "Stop," John protests, his skull pounding – but when Sherlock stops wriggling he finds himself in a surprisingly comfortable position, tucked into the curve of the tall man's lanky frame, his head resting softly in the dip between Sherlock's bony shoulder and his neck. Despite his sharp points and his skinny figure (filling out little by little, John notes approvingly) the man makes an oddly agreeable pillow.

"What… the _bloody hell_ are you doing?" John says, trying to look up at his friend but only managing to see the underside of his chin. He tries to wriggle free but each attempt sends a bolt of pain through his skull, so he in the end has no choice but to stay put.

"I'm attempting to relieve your headache," Sherlock explains. "I've observed that you tend to relax more in certain conditions, so I've decided to try implementing those conditions to attain the maximum… of… well." He shifts a little, and trails off.

John looks down at where Sherlock's pale hand is wrapped loosely around his shoulders. "You wanker," he comments.

Sherlock says nothing, but his hand tightens its grip.

The two are silent for what could have been seconds, and could have been minutes. The world is quieter than usual, it being such an early hour of the morning, and there isn't much sound besides the ticking of the clock on the table and the beating of two hearts. John's breathing slows and deepens. The stabbing pain in his skull fades to a quiet ache with each rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, lifting John's torso up just the slightest bit each time with the inflation.

The millions of thoughts that have been keeping John up all night don't go away, but they quiet and simmer down, they recede into the darker recesses of his mind, take a backseat to other matters. John opens his eyes and stares at Sherlock's long fingers, still gripping his shoulder. The way they're holding him is so gentle and unexpected that for a moment, he isn't entirely sure that he isn't completely imagining their presence – but he can feel the pressure from each thin fingertip, pressing down through his jumper and onto his jangled nerves that continue to relax with each passing second. He breathes out slowly and closes his eyes.

"Is this what it's like to be you all the time?" he asks.

They're the first words that have been spoken in a long time, but Sherlock seemed to be expecting them. "What exactly do you mean?" he asks. His voice seems lower than usual, a deep, soft rumbling that washes over everything in John's mind like a warm wave on the shoreline.

John wrinkles his brow, eyes still shut. "I can't stop thinking about it. The case, the missing lith. I _need_ to know. It's almost driving me insane. It's consuming all of my thoughts, so much it hurts. Is this what it's like for you, all the time?"

He can feel Sherlock nodding. "Only when I can't solve a case, which is rarely."

"Less rarely than you think," John mutters, smiling.

Sherlock seems irritated for a moment, but seems to smile a little as well. "It will pass, eventually. What's going on in your brain."

John shakes his head. "Doesn't feel like it."

"Trust me," Sherlock says, adjusting his fingers on John's shoulders. For just the smallest fraction of a second, his thumb brushes against the bare skin of John's neck. It's only the barest of touches, but the feeling blossoms out from the point of contact, spreading within a second to every inch of his neck, tickling his shoulder and the underside of his chin.

He closes his eyes and leans closer into his best friend's shoulder. Warmth is blooming in his chest like dye dropped in water. It spreads to every inch of each of his extremities, filling his fingers and toes with a feeling akin to hot tea going down your throat. He breathes out, slow and long.

"I do trust you," he responds, before he really knows what he's saying. The words slip out of his mouth on his warm breath, not entirely his own and yet the truest words he's ever spoken. His mind jolts a little at the accuracy of that sentence – _I trust him more than I've ever trusted anyone. Is that smart, John? Is that safe?_

_Do I care?_

"Not really," he whispers, to no one in particular.

"Hm?" Sherlock shifts a bit, trying to get a look at him.

"Nothing," he mutters. Sherlock nods.

He closes his eyes again as his breathing continues to slow.

•••

A door slams in a distant room; John stirs. Sherlock watches him as his head moves backwards, each crick in his neck eliciting a short pop or crack. He blinks a few times, squinting his eyes at the brightness all around them.

"What…" he begins, looking down at himself and back at the detective.

"Morning," Sherlock says. He reaches his arm up from where it's been resting on John's shoulders for the past five hours or so, and stretches it out.

John sits up quickly, sending a wave of shock through Sherlock's body at the sudden loss of weight and warmth. Blood rushes to his right leg, which went numb hours ago, but he barely notices. His mind is focused on the spontaneous and uninvited cold which envelops his stomach and chest, and everywhere else that John had been just moments ago.

He breaks himself out of his thoughts when John turns towards him, a mortified look on his face. "Oh my god," he says. "Did I… I did, didn't I…"

"You fell asleep," says Sherlock matter-of-factly. "Only natural, considering how tired you must have been after all that. I think I might have fallen asleep at some point as well, but I woke up somewhere around an hour ago."

"Oh my god," John repeats, getting up as quickly as possible and sending another bolt of cold through Sherlock's skin. He stumbles with early-morningness – his wings send flashes of refracted morning sunlight in every direction. "I'm sorry, I can't believe–"

"It's… fine," Sherlock says. He realizes that maybe he's still a bit sleepy, too. "I don't understand why you're so upset about this."

John spins around to him, still pounding the sleepiness out of his eyes with his palms. "Because… oh god, I just… fell asleep _on top_ of you, I'm sorry…" He pauses, realizing something. "Hold on, you just… you just stayed there? After I fell asleep?"

Sherlock gives him an eyebrow. "If I had moved, I would have woken you up," he answers. "It really isn't that complicated."

"Why do you care?" John stares at him, and at first Sherlock wonders if he's angry… but in the end, Sherlock cans see that he's just confused. He walks over to the table, picks up a paper, looks at it, and puts it back down. "What does it matter to you if I wake up?"

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but closes it. He thinks back to last night (or, earlier that morning, he supposes) when John's breathing first slowed and his body went limp. Sherlock had studied him for a while, before the thought occurred to him that John looked so… _comfortable._ The smaller man was tucked alongside him as if he'd spent every night of his life there; his face was turned into Sherlock's shoulder, breathing gently onto his neck, his wings were caught between John's back and Sherlock's chest, and his hand rested somewhere in Sherlock's lap. Something had started to seep into Sherlock's thin bones, starting at a point somewhere in the middle of his ribcage – his brain started to spin with wonder.

The simple fact that John Watson could sit next to him and be this _close_ to him and be comfortable enough to fall asleep was one of the most beautiful and confusing facts that Sherlock's brain had ever mulled over.

He'd watched John's chest rise and fall, and felt a wave of satisfaction at his surprisingly successful endeavor – the whole point of the exercise had been to get John to relax, after all, and he'd done far better than that. The need to make sure that John slept came from a pit in the deepest recesses of his brain that seemed to keep making more of a fuss with each passing day: it was the part of his mind that was always keeping a tab on John's wellbeing, the part that forced Sherlock's hand to untie his scarf and hand it to John when he forgot his jacket, the part that made Sherlock call ahead to a restaurant and make a reservation so he knew John would have something to eat later, the part that sent Sherlock running off on cases by himself because he knew that they would be dangerous, because it was that same part of his mind that could not begin to fathom the thought of John being hurt.

It was this part of his brain that had kept him from moving all through the night, until he too fell asleep – and it was this part of his brain that was sending waves of cold through his chest, now aching with its lack of a John.

He clears his throat. "This case isn't finished," he replies. He looks away, towards the window. "I'm going to need your help, and I can't have you falling over with lack of sleep later on."

When he glances back, John is staring straight at him – the two make eye contact. For one terrible moment, it seems to Sherlock that his flatmate knows exactly why he hadn't moved all those hours before, even when Sherlock himself isn't really sure – but the moment passes, and John walks off to the kitchen.

Sherlock watches him go, watches the way he walks – bolt upright, still retaining the form he learned in the military, wings held at a neutral upward position, steps slow and sleepy – while his brain starts rambling off hundreds of observations, which he isn't really paying attention to. _Hasn't phoned Sarah, wondering if he should but not entirely sure. Doesn't like the hideous green jumper his sister sent him, but planning on wearing it anyway. Going to have a drink with some friends from the surgery later today. Wondering if he should feign sickness and beg out._

_Very well rested. Going to try to get me to eat something._

Sighing, Sherlock stands, creaking and stretching himself out, and makes his way over to the kitchen.

"I don't eat while I'm on a case," he says, coming up to stand behind John at the microwave.

John turns and gives him the most withering glare he's ever experienced.

Sherlock sighs. "Is it from that Italian place we went to two days ago?"

"Yes." John spoons something into a bowl. "It's your ravioli. You seemed to like it."

Sherlock stares at John from where he leans against the countertop. His eyes narrow, as if he can't quite get the man in focus. John doesn't seem to notice, and goes about stirring up the noodles and putting them in the microwave, and Sherlock's brain races.

"Why do you care so much?" he asks, before he can stop himself. He doesn't know why he asked it – he already knew the answer, and the answer is poking him from the inside, sharp points sticking this way and that because this knowledge just doesn't fit right inside him.

John stops, and pauses for some time before turning to his flatmate. His face is soft and gentle but there's still something in it that's pained and tired.

"Because you're my friend," he says, and he turns back to the microwave. "It's pretty simple, Sherlock. I'm sure your super-brain or whatever could have figured that out."

Sherlock breathes in the scent of leftover marinara sauce; it does smell delicious. _Doesn't like the green jumper,_ his brain repeats. _The green jumper. Green jumper._

_Green._

A spark ignites his mind.

He grabs the food from John's hands and starts striding towards the couch, shoveling down huge bites of pasta as he walks. He sits down on the couch and grabs John's laptop with one hand, hefting another fork-load to his mouth with the other.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John follows him, his brow creased and his mouth hanging open. When Sherlock doesn't answer, he moves closer. "No, seriously, _what_ are you doing?"

"I'm _eating,_" Sherlock hisses, waving the fork about his head. "Happy?"

John crosses his arms. "What are you _really_ doing?"

Sherlock bites down on the last ravioli, chews, and swallows. "Looking up the chemical content and smudge rate of different types of lipstick," he answers.

After a moment, John goes off to the kitchen to microwave his own leftovers. By the time he gets back, Sherlock has seven tabs open and his mind is racing.

John sits down in his chair opposite him and takes a bite. "So? Got anything yet?"

"Yes," Sherlock says. "Lime Crime Opaque Lipstick, color name 'Serpentina.' Dark emerald green color, only available seasonally. Sells for about fifteen pounds."

"Okay, and…?"

"_Green_ lipstic, John," Sherlock emphasizes. He shuts the computer and runs to the door – he begins putting on his coat. "_Green_."

John says nothing.

Sherlock sighs. "Didn't you _notice_ the green stains on Linda Mason's blouse?"

"Well…" John thinks back. "Um, yeah, I guess I did. But couldn't that just be a normal stain?"

"Oh for god's sake." Sherlock's tying his scarf up now. "She _never_ wears makeup, couldn't you tell by her skin? She doesn't use anything on her face, not even moisturizer."

"Okay…" Sherlock watches John reach for his own coat. "Um… couldn't it have been Esme Hamilton instead?"

"What woman over the age of forty wears dark green lipstick?" Sherlock scoffs. "I know what you're thinking, it wasn't one of the kids at the daycare, either. The stain on the shirt was left there by a mouth, an adult-sized mouth. Chapped lips."

Sherlock's mind trails off as he watches John's wings disappear underneath that thin nylon prison. For a moment, just a moment, he feels a wave of sadness wash over him with the gentleness of John's breathing only hours before – he pushes it away, not entirely successfully.

"So where are we going?" John asks, breaking him out of his thoughts.

"Back to the morgue, then to the crime scene," Sherlock answers.

"And… after that?" John persists.

Sherlock glances at him, wondering why he wishes John wasn't wearing his contacts when he looked at him like that, why the admiring gaze his flatmate sometimes sent his way would seem so much better if it wasn't covered up by two filthy lies. "After that," he says, wondering why his heart is beating faster, "who knows?"

He walks out the door, and John doesn't say a word.

•••

_A/N: Sorry about the delay, gosh darn it! A CERTAIN BETA THAT I COULD MENTION kept forgetting to give me the revised version back (I'm talking to you, dear.) (That's okay, I still love you anyway. )_


	9. Stains

CHAPTER NINE: STAINS

It's small. The sort of thing that John's default setting as a normal person would completely ignore, and therefore the sort of thing that Sherlock would pull a person's life story from. _There seem to be too many of those_, John thinks, not entirely bitterly but not too happily, either.

It's very green.

"Looks sort of like a grass stain, except…" John stares at the mark, trying to figure it out. "It's… too dark. And a bit smudgier."

"Lipstick," Sherlock reminds him. He leans over to get a better look, making good use of his magnifying glass. "Well, at least we know one thing."

John takes a moment to breathe out, breathe in. "And what's that?" he asks.

Sherlock looks at him and smirks that smirk of his. "Linda Mason had an unwelcome admirer," he answers.

John tries his best not to gape like an idiot. "Okay, and, how do we know that?" he asks, collecting himself and having a better look.

"The stain isn't just from lipstick," Sherlock explains. His voice is already getting quicker, going into the bullet train of a tone that he uses to shoot off deductions. "Traces of lip liner, which was applied all over the lips as opposed to just the edges. Only women who actually know what they're doing apply lip pencils all over as a base under their lipstick – this says that whoever left this mark wore and applied makeup regularly. The lip liner's green, a very similar shade to the lipstick – the lip pencil was bought specifically to match this seasonal shade of lipstick, but it's not the same brand. This woman didn't just _wear_ makeup, she took it very seriously.

"Traces of skin from where her lips were peeling. There are smudges of concealer and foundation on other parts of the shirt; obviously a woman who was meticulous about her face and skin. Not the type of woman to let her lips get chapped. The lipstick had been applied after the lips were already chapped, and any woman who takes her makeup seriously would be wary of layering lip products on peeling skin, so she must have not have been planning on wearing the lipstick at first. It was a last second decision, possibly when she was already nearing her destination."

"How come you know so much about makeup?" John asks, more suspicious than curious.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Makeup can leave valuable marks, as I am currently demonstrating," he snaps.

Despite Sherlock's irritated glare, or possibly because of it, John starts to giggle. "Sorry," he manages, upon receiving an even darker look. "Go on, keep… deducing."

Immediately, Sherlock turns back to the corpse. "This shirt," he begins. John can see his brain ticking. "Button up, stiff collar – doesn't seem to be Mason's usual style, judging by the tan lines around her neck. Very nice brand. Not _too_ expensive, but a bit of a splurge for someone who makes a living off of children's books." He looks closer. "It's about a year old. Been ironed and pressed twice since then. But that's not because she's lazy or can't afford it – the wrinkles are neat, she took very good care of this shirt. Probably the nicest shirt she owned. No, she's only had it pressed twice because she's only worn it twice."

He lifts up the collar, peers underneath. "This was the only presentable shirt she owned – she kept it for formal events and when she wanted to look professional, like when she went to meet with a publisher, as she was scheduled to do the day she died. Most likely going to propose a new book idea. So she must have had this shirt on the day she was sexually assaulted."

John shakes his head, trying to clear it out. "Wait, hold on. How can you know she was assaulted? How do you know she didn't just… have a date with someone? Wait, how do you even know this was left by something sexual?"

Sherlock gives him The Look, the how-can-you-be-such-an-idiot look, and John ignores it. He stares at the corpse, trying to turn his head sideways or cross his eyes or something, trying to see what Sherlock sees. All he sees is a shirt with a stain on it.

"There are still wrinkles around the collar where someone was grabbing her," Sherlock explains, pointing. "One of the buttons is coming off – again, Mason took very good care of this shirt, so it must have been someone else trying to rip it off her. The fabric is stretched here and here, so she tried to pull away, but her attacker was too strong. The makeup is smeared over her shoulder in such a way that could only have been from someone trying to get at her face – a woman, by the lip marking, shorter than Mason but taller than you."

"Watch it," John warns.

"Now really isn't the time to be self-conscious about your height, John."

John bristles. "Well, it's not like you make it any easier for me!"

Sherlock jerks back, affronted. "What do _I_ do?"

"You're a bloody giant," John mutters, staring daggers up at him. "Just… sod it, never mind. You're right, now's not the time."

"If you really wanted to be taller than me," Sherlock snaps, "you know one very simple way to go about it."

Silence.

John's throat goes dry. He stares up at his friend, who seems to be perfectly aware of what he's just said and not about to say anything else on the matter. John's brain isn't working too properly, and he's starting to wonder whose fault that is.

His wings itch terribly underneath his jacket.

After too long of a moment, he looks away. "You know I can't do that," he says, quietly.

Another pause. "Can't," Sherlock repeats, "or won't?"

It's a stab through his temple. "_Can't_," he answers firmly. Things are flashing through his sub-cranium, now – goddamnit. Bullets. Falling. Swiss Army Knife clattering to the floor, covered in his blood, god _damnit._ Damn you, Sherlock Holmes. "Can't."

Sherlock looks like he's studying the shirt, but John knows better. It's a long while before he speaks again. "You could," he says, finally. John closes his eyes. "_Can_. You… you can. I know so."

The silence is growing awkward again, although not so much _awkward_ as the presence of something that could either destroy or recreate the both of them, so John clears his throat. "Deductions," he coughs.

A moment, and Sherlock blinks. "Of course. Yes." Shaken, he turns back to the body and the stain. "This shirt's been washed three times since the stain was created, but it hasn't been worn since – further proof that the sexual advances were unwelcome. After this woman attacked her, she wanted rid of this shirt, since it held the evidence, a reminder, of her assault. However, she couldn't afford to throw it away, so she first tried to wash the stain out. She used a powerful stain remover but no bleach, probably from fear that she'd ruin the material. Still, no matter how hard she tried, the stain wouldn't come out, so she threw it to the bottom of her closet, where it's been sitting for… a month and a half."

"Amazing," John says, partly out of awe and partly out of habit. Sherlock tries to hide the glimmer of pride in his eyes, but John's spent too many years in military training to miss it.

"She only brought the shirt out yesterday, for her meeting," Sherlock continues. "That's evident in her hair – meticulously done, although the texture says that she doesn't take good care of her hair most of the time, so it must have been a really special occasion. She wakes up, gets herself cleaned up, even applies the tiniest bit of tinted chapstick, borrowed from Esme, and when faced with the prospect of getting dressed nicely, she's forced to dig through her closet and put on this shirt."

He pauses, thinking. John blinks. "So… what's that got to do with her death?" he asks.

"She was wearing a cardigan," Sherlock answers. He picks up said cardigan, which he'd peeled off and set on the counter in order to get a better look at the shirt underneath. "It's not a nice or expensive cardigan, so the only reason she could possibly be wearing it would be to cover up the green lipstick stain."

John realizes something, and what Sherlock's just said doesn't fit right. "But…" he begins, hesitantly – "why would she use this cardigan to cover up a stain, when the cardigan's–"

"When the cardigan's got stains of its own?" Sherlock finishes, smiling the smirk again. He holds up the thin fabric, so John can see the collage of food spills and grass stains and smudges of something he really hopes is red paint. It's not the messiest item of clothing he's ever seen, but it's not exactly one he'd wear if he was trying to come off as professional. "Why would she cover up a stained shirt with an even more intensely stained cardigan?"

"I… don't know."

"Because she wasn't hiding the stain from her publisher," Sherlock answers. There's a gleam in his eye – _this is the thing_, John thinks. _The really big thing, that he's been leading up to._ Sherlock tosses the cardigan away. "She was hiding the stain from Esme."

"What?" John wrinkles his brow.

"It's all so _obvious_, John!" Sherlock exclaims, starting to walk out the door. John follows. "Whomever attacked Linda a month or so ago, Linda doesn't want Esme to know about it. That's one of the reasons she tried so hard to get rid of the stain in the first place. She's been hiding the stain, and the shirt, from Esme all this time because she _knew_ Esme would recognize it, due to it's very unusual _green _color."

John purses his lips as he walks alongside his friend. "So Esme would have been able to tell who sexually assaulted her flatmate by the color of the lipstick she'd been wearing?"

"It's not a very common shade, is it?"

"So it was probably someone who wears green lipstick a lot."

"Either that, or just eccentric shades in general, yes."

"And…" For god's sake, Sherlock, you really don't have to walk that fast. Your legs are long enough already. "For some reason, Linda really, really didn't want Esme to know this had happened?"

"Oh, _now_ you're catching on. Is a celebration in order?"

"Good to know you're your usual cheery self," John mutters. They turn the corner, and almost run into Molly.

"Oh!" she half-squeals, as if she's done something terrible, like run over a kitten with an SUV. "Hi."

"Hello, Molly," John says with a smile. Sherlock, predictably, says nothing.

Molly gestures awkwardly at the direction they just came from. "Did you… were you, just… looking at those two? The… weird ones?"

John nods. "Sherlock's figured something out, so we're going to the crime scene."

Sherlock stands, waiting impatiently. John can tell that it's taking every smidgen of his self-control not to simply bolt down the hallway, leaving John behind.

"Um, about… sorry, just…" Molly motions toward the room they came from, where the two cadavers lie. "Are they… sorry, are they supposed to have wings?"

"Er." John stands up straighter (closer, make them invisible, please.) "Yeah. Don't worry about it."

Molly looks unsure, but she nods.

The words "Well, bye," are barely detached from John's lips before Sherlock's off down the hallway again. John follows, having to take huge almost-leaping steps in order to keep up, and it feels slightly and terribly like flying.

•••

"Don't know how you manage it," Lestrade comments as he's searching through some files on his desktop. "Me, I'd have run off by now, if he treated me the way he treats you."

John shrugs, because he's not sure what to say to that. "He can be a right git a lot of the time," he agrees. "But… I don't really mind it, I guess. I mean, some things, like when he leaves ungodly body parts in the dishes, yeah, that does piss me off." Lestrade chuckles. "But he's my friend, when the day's over. I put up with him."

"Even when he has you run all over London?" Lestrade asks, raising an eyebrow.

John sighs. "Yeah, he does do that, doesn't he?" For god's sake, he should be at the crime scene right now – but Sherlock just had to bloody change his mind, run off to the dead women's flat without him, leave him to do all the gathering-information type work, as per usual. "He sent me here to get your information on Hamilton and Mason. Have you found out anything?"

Lestrade nods. "I've got the names of all their closest living relatives. Also, the publishing company Mason had a contract with, and the website for the daycare they ran. It's all here." He hands over a freshly-printed sheet, which John looks over, folds, and pockets. Lestrade purses his lips, studying the dust on his desk a little too intently. He pauses, the way people do when there's something on their mind that's practically falling over the tip of their tongue in its eagerness to escape, but they're not entirely sure whether or not they should get it out. He waits.

"You know…" he says, slowly. "It's all been… a bit of a shock, really. I mean, in reality it's been like any other case we've had to call Sherlock in for. But, I just… can't… really wrap my head around…"

_Oh_, John thinks. _That._

"There was this one bloke," John says. He shifts in his seat. "In Afghanistan. Good man, good soldier. He… he was the sort of man that you might not want to talk to at first, but once you got to know him and he got to trusting you, he'd always stick by you, 'til the end."

Lestrade peers at him from underneath creased eyebrows. "And he… he was one of them?" he asks.

At this point, John is becoming very, very good at not wincing. "He was a fairy, yeah." He swallows. "Good friend of mine. He'd really screwed up his life, he was trying to make things right, you know?"

"Yeah, I know."

Swallow, again. "But people were afraid of him. Just because of what he was, what he had sticking out of his back. They thought he was dangerous, so they decided to kill him. They shot him, he almost died. I watched it all happen."

Lestrade says nothing.

"I realized, then," John continues. "They're just like us, you know. They've got the same minds, same hearts. They fall in love the same way and hate the same way and die the same way. The only reason they're any different is because humans say that they are."

This silence is different – it's the bad, awkward kind. The uncomfortable kind, the kind that makes your skin not only crawl but writhe.

"I…" Lestrade begins, but falters. "God, John, I mean… your friend being shot and all, that's… Jesus, that's a bit extreme. But how can you really know for sure that they're not different? Not dangerous?" He sighs. "Can you _really _be sure that they're just like us?"

In the moments that follow, John wonders if it might have been easier if that bullet really had ended him. He pushes the thought away hopes that he's not going to cry. God, that would really be awful. No. He's not going to cry. Good.

Lestrade clears his throat. John doesn't move.

"We've… sent someone, to deal with the kids," he says, hesitantly.

John looks up. "What kids?"

The detective inspector shifts uncomfortably. "Mason's kids," he explains. "Two girls, twins, age eight. Off in the country, remember? Visiting an uncle."

John nods. He remembers.

"We had to send someone down to tell them," he continues. "_God,_ I hate this part. This whole fucking part, they never tell you about it when you join the Yard. We had to send someone up to Wales to tell two bloody kids that their mum's just been murdered, they've just become orphans."

John looks at the list again, and decides not to say anything.

Lestrade sighs, rubbing his temple. "Sorry, didn't mean to… go off, there," he says. When he looks up, his eyes are tired. "You know… it's just that you're… you're a good man, you know. I thought you might understand."

"I do," John says, nodding. "Yeah, I do understand."

Lestrade nods. "I guess you'd just have to be a really spectacular bloke in order to last this long with Sherlock Holmes."

"I do my best," he answers, smiling softly. "But I know… I know how you feel. I know what you're going through. I was in the army, remember."

"Yeah."

"Had friends die right in front of me."

Lestrade nods again. "How'd you deal with it all?" he asks.

"I don't know," John answers, truthfully. "I'm not sure I _did_ deal with it."

After a moment, Lestrade turns back to the computer screen. "Anyway. How's the case getting along?"

"Well, Sherlock's looking for a woman who sexually assaulted Mason a month or so ago. He thinks it's important, so it probably is. The woman wore green lipstick, and Mason didn't want Hamilton to know about it."

Lestrade gapes a little. "And… how'd he get all that?"

"From a stain," John answers, chuckling inwardly. Everything about today is so Sherlock, all of this is so classic Sherlock, _his_ Sherlock. "On a shirt."

"Blimey," Lestrade breathes out. "Sometimes I wonder if he's even human."

"Trust me, he is," John answers. "I've checked."

Lestrade chuckles, oblivious to the fact that John was being completely serious. "John, I know it's not really the time, what with two women dead and all," he says, "but I'd like to grab a pint with you sometime. You know, as friends, for once."

Surprised, John grins. "Yeah. I'd like that."

"Don't really get out with mates too much," Lestrade says with a sigh.

"Neither do I. I'd like to more often, though."

"Yeah." Lestrade turns back to him, and it's almost as though he's seeing him for the first time. "You know," he begins, "I'm glad he's got you."

Again, John says nothing. He nods, but it's such a small movement that Lestrade misses it completely.

"It's hard to believe, but he really has changed, a little," the detective inspector continues. He looks at John sideways. "Since you came around. He's gotten… better. I don't know how to put it, but it's really sort of like you've made him more of a real person."

John nods. "He sort of did the same for me."

Lestrade says nothing for a while. After a sufficient amount of silent seconds have passed, he jerks out of whatever state he was in. "You should probably go find him," he says. He stands up and begins walking towards the door; John follows. "And call me up the next time you've got an hour, will you? I know a nice bar 'round the corner."

John nods gratefully. "Yeah. That'd be nice."

"Your girlfriend won't mind?" Lestrade chuckles. John rolls his eyes – he knows full well that his ill luck with women has become an inside joke with the Yard.

"I'm single, right now, actually," he answers, but something's not fitting right in his mind.

_Your girlfriend won't mind?_ The phrase repeats in his brain, demanding his attention. _Girlfriend won't mind? Girlfriend?_

"Girlfriend," he whispers.

Lestrade raises an eyebrow. "What's that?"

John pushes him aside, stepping back into Lestrade's office. "Sorry, Greg, I can't go just yet." Lestrade takes his seat across the desk, and waits. John's heart is beating with the anticipation and the aftermath of an epiphany.

"There's one thing I need you to look into," he says. He smiles, despite himself.

•••

Sherlock guesses which cab John is in before said cab makes it halfway down the block. No, not 'guesses' – he never guesses. He deduces which cab contains John Watson, and he's right.

When John walks forward, there's a spring in his step. His face isn't smiling at first, but it blossoms into that lovely grin as soon as he lays eyes on Sherlock's familiar, coat-clad figure. Sherlock raises an eyebrow. _What's got you so happy, John Watson?_

"Find out anything?" John asks, crossing his arms against the cold.

Sherlock takes a moment to scowl discreetly at John's flimsy jacket (it's almost become a tradition by now) before answering. "Come upstairs, let me show you."

John nods, and within a minute they're standing in the flat again. Sherlock makes his way to Hamilton's bedroom, where the bodies had been found. He sees John stiffen out of the corner of his eye – no doubt remembering the confrontation between himself and Sally Donovan one day prior.

"Bed sheets," he says, gesturing with a gloved hand. "I found more stains, almost identical to the one on Mason's shirt. Same brand of lipstick, not always the same color, always with matching lip-liner. Definitely left by the same person."

"Okay, so what's different?" John looks closely, and does indeed see stains. Some are the same green, but some are varying shades of red, others are purple, and one seems to be yellow. "You wouldn't be this excited if there wasn't something different."

Sherlock's grinning an almost grin, one he knows John's used to seeing by now. "Two things," he says. "Firstly, some of the stains are older than others. Whoever left these stains has been here multiple times, covering a wide time span."

"Okay… what's the second?"

"These sheets have been washed many times, and Hamilton's tried to get the stains off with remover," Sherlock continues. "But the newer ones have never had stain remover applied. She stopped trying to get rid of them after a while, probably because she realized that they weren't going to come out no matter how hard she tried."

John looks lost, which is what Sherlock expected. "So… what's that mean?"

"It _means_," Sherlock grins, "that while Mason was sexually assaulted, Hamilton welcomed the same person's advances, multiple times. She didn't care about getting rid of the stains because they had no emotion or bad memories attached to them."

John nods. "Did you find anything else?"

In answer, Sherlock walks out of the room. When he passes the living room, he gestures to one of the couches.

"More stains there," he tosses out over his shoulder. John takes a look, and keeps following until Sherlock reaches the bathroom.

"Look here," he says, pointing to the dustbin. He watches as John looks, watches the bend of his back and the creasing of his brow. "Do you see it?"

John pauses. "Is that a–"

"Tube of lipstick," Sherlock says triumphantly. "Lime Crime, Serpentina."

John's eyebrows go up. "So what's that mean?"

Sherlock picks up the tube and pulls off the cap. The bullet's been completely worn down – this lipstick has been used very frequently. Most of the tip is covered in a layer of strokes; applied with brush, then. However, the very surface is irregular and full of bumps, and just the tiniest flakes of skin.

"Last applied on chapped lips," he says, grinning. "Haphazardly, without a brush – this woman wasn't prepared, she probably applied it as a last minute decision." John says nothing, but seems to have something on the tip of his tongue. Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Okay, so, what did you get from Lestrade?"

"Nothing important," John says. A sly, innocent grin.

Sherlock's eyes narrow.

"What?" he asks.

To his irritation, John only grins again. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Teasing him, then.

Sherlock sighs. There really isn't time for this. "_What_ did you get from Lestrade?" he repeats.

"Nothing at all," John answers, looking off into the distance and folding his hands behind his back.

Sherlock sighs again.

"Except I do know who the woman is," John adds, after a moment.

Sherlock jerks his head back. "What?" He stares at John's placidly smug face. "Who?"

John's grin only grows. "Lucy Heralds, age thirty-three. Photographer and professional make-up artist. Lives in Hackney."

For once, Sherlock can do nothing but stare. "_How_ do you know that?"

"I bloody figured it out, you git," John grins. "You're not the only one who can _deduce_ things, you know."

Sherlock's still gaping, just a little. "Who exactly is Lucy Heralds?" he asks.

John grins even wider (Sherlock didn't know he could do that.) "Esme Hamilton's ex-girlfriend," he answers, waiting for the words to sink into Sherlock's brain.

Finally, it's that moment of everything becoming crystal clear in one instant. This final piece that John's contributed is already being fitted into a million slots in his brain, voids that have been eagerly awaiting something solid for far too long. To say that his mind is racing would be a hideous understatement – Sherlock's brain is defying the laws of physics, breaking the light barrier, gaining infinite mass and infinite speed/inertia all at once.

"When did Hamilton break up with Heralds?" John asks, derailing his train of thought.

Sherlock glances around the flat and sees what he needs to see. "Around two months ago," he answers.

"And… Mason was attacked a month and a half ago?" John continues. "So… Heralds gets dumped, then half a month later she tries to rape her ex's flatmate?"

Sherlock nods. He starts pacing in circles around the room, nearly spinning with his hands open as if he's trying to catch something in the air. He stares at some point near the ceiling. "You said it yourself, John," he mutters. He's thinking. "Mason and Hamilton were in love, although they weren't officially dating. Most probably… Hamilton broke up with Lucy Heralds to be with Linda Mason."

"So Lucy's girlfriend dumped her for another girl?" John laughs. "That's what this is all about? Seems a bit extreme, doesn't it?"

"Heralds would have wanted to get back at Hamilton somehow," Sherlock goes on. He puts his fingers together underneath his chin – John calls it his "posh thinking pose," or something like that. "But… no, if she wanted to get revenge on Hamilton, why would she attack _Mason_?"

John stares at him with a tired, tired face – the same face he's been seeing his whole life from so many people, the face that made him decide to look up the word "sociopath" in the first place. It's his eternal punishment for whenever he's said something cold and emotionless and very _not human_, and it never had any effect until John started using it on him. When John's features contort into that hideously resigned mask of disappointment, it makes Sherlock wish that he could be swallowed by his own breath and shrivel into nothingness.

"Oh, god, I dunno," John scoffs, dry and full of sarcasm. "Maybe she _cared_ about her or something." He looks down and sighs. "Ridiculous, right? That you might try to get revenge at someone by hurting the person they love. God, that's stupid."

Sherlock swallows. Something's tugging downward at the base of his throat, and he doesn't know why.

"Fine," he snaps, but without much enthusiasm – he knows that John'll be able to tell that he understands, which he really does. "But that can't be all of it. It wasn't just anger, John, it was _jealousy._ Jealousy of Linda Mason, Hamilton's real friend, the person she really loves, so much more so than Heralds. She wouldn't just want Hamilton to hurt, she'd want her to stop loving Linda Mason, the woman who took her place."

"Okay, so…" John looks normal again, and Sherlock can't help feeling relieved.

"So, she comes over a week or so after the breakup," Sherlock explains. The pieces have already fallen into place in his head, but John knows full well that it makes everything that much clearer to say it all out loud. "She tries to have sex, or something of that sort, with Mason, and tries to make it look like Mason was cheating on Hamilton."

To Sherlock's bemusement, John laughs. "Oh my god," he giggles (a giggle shouldn't sound that nice, it really shouldn't.) "That's… that's bloody ridiculous, and it's bloody genius."

Sherlock grins. "She walked here through the cold, and waited outside until she knew Hamilton was just about to come home. Hence, the chapped lips. A few minutes before, she walked inside and found Mason, who suspected nothing and welcomed her in. She must have found out that Hamilton wouldn't be coming home that night, so she had to think fast. She had to do something that would leave a lasting mark, something Hamilton would recognize – so she went to the bathroom and put on a quick coat of her trademark lipstick."

"Amazing."

"Mason probably kicked her out before Hamilton got home, so she had time to wash the marks off her face and change clothes. _That's_ why she hid the shirt and the stain for so long, because she knew that Hamilton would recognize the marks."

"Okay…" John looks towards the bedroom, where they died. "So she took the shirt out and tried to cover it up with a cardigan. Later that day, they were murdered. So… how's this all connect? You don't think _Heralds_ murdered them, do you?"

"If Heralds murdered them, they might actually look like they had been _murdered_, don't you think?" Sherlock asked exasperatedly. "Still, I don't think it would hurt to give her a call, don't you think?"

"I think that's a smashing idea," John says, smirking, and walks out the door ahead of him.

Sherlock takes a moment to stare at his retreating back, where he knows his wings are painfully bound beneath layers of knits and nylon. Without thinking, he rushes forward until they're walking side by side and drapes his arm over John's shoulder.

John jerks his head up. "Sherlock, what are you–"

"Quiet, I'm thinking," Sherlock snaps, although in reality his brain is stagnating. Not necessarily in a bad way, however.

Discreetly, he slips a hand lower until his fingertips are brushing the tiny bumps in the fabric that mark the bases of John's wings. He feels John jerk a little at the slight contact, but it only lasts a moment. They keep walking, until they're standing still, waiting for the doors of the rickety lift to open. Comfortable.

"And I wonder why people think we're a couple," John smirks.

Sherlock only smiles, and says nothing.

•••

_Note: So longest chapter so far, I think? I've had some requests to make the chapters longer, so here goes. I hope y'all are enjoying this little mystery because gosh darn, is it hard to write this stuff. The story's really going to pick up in a chapter or so, so hold on to your pants! K bye._


	10. Yet Another Coat

CHAPTER TEN: YET ANOTHER COAT

John pulls his jacket close to him against the cold. They've just walked out of a tube station, and now they're strolling down the long ramp toward the dirty Hackney streets.

"Address?" Sherlock prompts.

"Right here." John reaches into his pocket and pulls out the scrap of paper Lestrade gave him. "Are you sure you can read it?"

Sherlock scoffs. "John, please. I am more than capable of deciphering your handwriting."

"Right. Sorry." It gets a little hard to think when it's this cold and all you have is what basically amounts to a windbreaker. "It's just, I was writing a bit fast. Excited and all that."

Sherlock nods. They turn the corner and pass some generic internationally available restaurants – Subway, McDonalds – and the ever-present and overpriced Pret A Manger. John looks around at the gum splattered sidewalks with a very strong sense of "almost". Before Sherlock, he'd been looking at a tiny flat in Hackney, not far from here. It wasn't too bad, but it was all he could afford. It almost physically hurts to think of living anywhere but 221B these days; nowhere else has ever had such a strong feeling of home.

They turn another corner.

It's a while before John's aware of Sherlock clearing his throat. He turns his head, but Sherlock's already looking away from him.

"That was… good, by the way," he says quietly. He clears his throat again and refuses to look John in the eye. "Your… deductions. Very impressive."

John stops walking altogether, and stares. After another step, Sherlock realizes that John's stopped, so he stops as well, and turns.

"What?" he asks.

"I…" John begins, but falters. "I… just supposed, I mean, I thought you'd be sort of upset that I figured it out before you did."

Sherlock stands up straighter. "Of course not, don't be ridiculous," he says, creasing his eyebrows defensively. "It's my own habits rubbing off on you, no doubt, so it seems perfectly fair to conclude that you learned it all from me. I'm not completely lacking in credit."

John shakes his head in disbelief. "You're an arse," he comments, walking forward again. Sherlock walks beside him – John can feel him smiling.

Without thinking, he reaches out a hand and takes Sherlock's gloved one in his fingers. He gives it a squeeze.

_Thank you_, he thinks.

A moment passes, and Sherlock lets his thumb slide over John's palm, a smooth brush of soft leather.

_You're welcome._

Both let go of the other's hand, and they walk in silence until they reach Lucy Heralds' flat, only two blocks away.

•••

After a few minutes of standing in silence, they ring up the flat just above Heralds'.

A middle-aged man answers. "Tyler Sommer. Yes?"

"Hi," Sherlock says, his face transforming into a silly smile. John laughs silently at the sight – he already used this tactic, back during _The Blind Banker. _ "Erm, I'm looking for Lucy, but I can't seem to–"

"Are you with the police?" Mr Sommer demands.

Sherlock stops, unsure. John answers for him. "Yes, we are."

There's a pause from the other end. "Third floor," the voice says, and there's a buzzing as the lock clicks open.

•••

"How long has it been?" Sherlock strides around the flat, taking in every detail.

Mr Sommer is short, shorter than John, and much rounder. Hasn't shaved in days, possibly hasn't bathed in just as long. Still, he's got a very fatherly air about him, which may explain why he's still standing in the corner, wringing his hands. "About a week since I last saw her," he says, his voice beginning to tremble. "Haven't heard from anyone about her since."

Sherlock's pinprick eyes dart back and forth. "She didn't say anything before she disappeared? She wasn't going anywhere?"

Wringing, back and forth. "She left like she usually does, for work. She's got this project going on, at a big theater downtown. The Uptown Theater, she said it was called. Putting on a big show or something. You know how she was with cosmetics, she was doing the makeup. Who are you two, again?"

Sherlock doesn't answer, so John steps forward and holds out his hand; Mr. Sommer takes it. "Dr. John Watson," he says, and then gestures towards the tall figure in the background. "And this is Sherlock Holmes."

Mr. Sommer nods, his eyes flicking between the two. "And you're with the police?"

Before John can answer, Sherlock interrupts, without turning around. "Is anything missing from her flat?"

Mr Sommer shakes his head, looking more miserable by the second. "She was… such a nice girl," he says, his lip trembling and his voice coming out half-choked. "Always so nice to me. I'm just an old man, Mr Holmes. I was lonely; she took such nice care of me. Made me dinner when I wasn't feeling well… I'm sick, you know."

John nods sympathetically to make up for Sherlock's complete apathy. _One_ of them has to be the emotional one, and that responsibility always ends up on John's shoulders. Mr Sommer starts fumbling around for a tissue, knocking over some stacks of books in the process.

"Be _careful!_" Sherlock snaps, looking at the old man as if he's lost his mind.

"Sorry, sorry…" Mr Sommer gives up on the tissues, and just snorts it all up instead. "It's just been so much of a shock, you know. Can you bring her back, Mr Holmes? Please, can you make sure she's safe?"

After a moment, Sherlock decides to say nothing. He takes out his phone and starts doing whatever it is he does when he's on the bloody thing.

John turns to Mr Sommer and gives him his most sympathetic smile. "We'll do our best," he assures him. The man nods tearfully.

"She was a good tenant," he sniffs. "Never left too much of a mess, made too much noise…"

"Well!" Sherlock shouts, so suddenly that John practically jumps. "We've got everything we needed here. Come along, John."

Before John can say anything, Sherlock's already out the door.

John shoves his hands in his pockets and looks around. "Alright, erm, if you hear anything from her, anything at all," he tells Mr Sommer, "just let us know."

"Alright," says Mr Sommer, and John walks away to go catch his flatmate, now sauntering down the stairs.

•••

"What did you see?"

They're walking down the street at a relaxed but still speedy pace. John's hands are clenching and unclenching in his pocket, his teeth bared against the chilly wind. Sherlock's collar is up, which gives John a clue as to what's going on in his mind.

Sherlock smiles. "I didn't see anything. I heard."

"Okay, what?"

In answer, he pulls out his phone. "Uptown Theater," he says. "Went out of business a few years ago, but it was sold to a new owner. Little place, not too successful. Herald's said that she was doing a large scale production there, but ever since the place changed ownership, they've only done very small, almost impromptu concerts."

"What? So she lied?"

"Possibly." Sherlock flips through the screen of his mobile, and shows it to John. "There are numerous reviews of different shows they've done. However, the earliest a show's ever been advertised before it actually goes on is two months. Most of them are only announced a week or two before they go on. Furthermore, although people report to having been to the shows, there is nowhere on the website or any other site where you can buy tickets."

"That…" John shivers at a particularly cold gust, and shakes it off. "That does seem strange, doesn't it?"

"Want to go take a look?"

"Yeah." He walks for another moment or so before deciding that now would be as good as any time to bring it up. "Erm, there was something else. About the flat."

Sherlock peers over at him. "What was that?"

"It was…" Another shiver. "Warm. The whole room was warm, the lith kind of tingly warm feeling, but it wasn't coming from you or Sommer. It was just sort of… floating about, random little bits of warmth everywhere." He closes his eyes and remembers. "Like a thousand tiny lith strands just floating everywhere, detached."

Sherlock pauses. "Is that unusual?"

"Yes. Very."

He thinks, quietly, still walking at his usual pace. John hugs his arms around himself. "We might need to give someone a call," Sherlock says, after a moment. "As much as it pains me to do so."

"Who?" They turn a corner.

Sherlock doesn't answer, but starts to compose a text on his mobile. After a few moments, he stops typing, stops walking, and stares at John like he's just remembered something.

"What?" John says, rubbing his arms up and down.

Without another word, Sherlock shoves the phone in his trouser pockets, and starts to pull off his coat. When he's stripped down to his crisp black jacket, he hands the mass of wool to John.

Shocked, John shakes his head. "No, Sherlock, that's your–"

–_coat_, he finishes in his head, because he's too surprised to speak when Sherlock lifts up his arms and starts stuffing them into the folds of the Belstaff. By the time John's able to form cohesive thoughts again, his arms are wrapped in too-long sleeves that dangle past his fingertips, and he's cloaked in a familiar coat that's long enough to be a dress and smells like everything Sherlock smells like.

Sherlock continues to walk, his scarf looking a little out of place without a huge woolen collar to nestle itself into. He doesn't shiver, but his breath is coming out a little shaky – John can see it in the little puffs of moisture that hang in the air – and his hands take up temporary residence in his trouser pockets.

For another block, John can only stare at him. Too many things are rushing through his mind, too many questions, too many answers, all of it drowned out by this nice warmth that's beginning to seep from his skin and remain trapped under the extra layer of expensive wool. He's starting to get very warm, warm in the nice way, and it really isn't the coat, although the coat's helping.

Sherlock finishes sending the text somewhere along the next block or so.

When they reach the tube and board their train, Sherlock offers John the only available seat, but John refuses to move until Sherlock himself sits down, which he does, after a moment or two. They spend the rest of the tube ride talking about ordinary things, or at least as ordinary as things get with Sherlock Holmes, and by the time they've reached arguing about whether or not they should start renting 221C and turn it into a full-time laboratory complete with a private mortuary, John's wings hurt so little that he doesn't even know if they're there anymore.

•••

Her phone chirps from her pocket.

She reaches her hand for it, decides against it, and ignores it.

A few moments later, it chirps again.

"Sorry, just a moment," she says over-apologetically. She retrieves her mobile and flips it open, only to find a few texts from _him._ She stops walking altogether, and her colleagues shrug and move on without her.

_He never texts me. Why's he texting me now?_

She reads the texts over and over again until her brain hurts, and she finally dials a number she hasn't dialed in a while and holds the receiver to her ear.

The phone rings and rings, three, four times, five and a half times before there's a click and the static of another part of London's white noise being filtered through phone lines. There's a pause.

"I prefer to text, Molly," says Sherlock coldly.

She shivers involuntarily, and instantly blushes. _Oh god, why does he have to have a voice like that…_

"I…" She shakes her head, and holds her ground. "What's going on? I got your texts but I didn't… I don't really know–"

"You said that you can see them?" He interrupts. It sounds like he's in a tube station, from what she can hear. Sounds like he's walking, too. She waits for him to finish his thought, but he seems to be waiting for her response.

She looks around, as if someone's listening in – no one is, of course. "The. Um. The Golden, you mean?"

"The lith, yes."

Softly, she nods, and then remembers that he can't see her. "Yes. All the time."

"We might need you in a little while." He mumbles something – probably to John. "We're going to the address I sent you. Can you meet us there?"

Molly swallows. It's all too much. "I've got work. I'm still at work."

Sherlock scoffs. "You get off in ten minutes, for god's sake. I know your schedule. It shouldn't be too far from Bart's, just take the tube. We'll be there."

"I…" she swallows again, defeated. She can't get out of this and she knows it – she's also not entirely sure she wants to. "I'll do my best."

Sherlock hangs up the phone first, and when she hangs up her own mobile she feels a bit like she's floating. It's not the first time he's ever asked for her help – oh, she'll never forget that one experiment with the liquid nitrogen – but it's the first time he's ever _needed it._

_He needs me_, she thinks to herself. She stares at the text with address as she walks down the hall – somewhere called the Uptown Theater. _I'm not just an extra pair of hands. I've got a skill that he hasn't got and now he needs me._

Perhaps that's why she's smiling when she rams into someone who was leaning against the wall, causing a massive stack of papers to cascade onto the ground.

"Oh!" she squeaks, putting the phone back in her pocket. Immediately, she's on the ground, reaching out to gather as many papers as she can. "I'm… I'm so sorry, I…"

"No no, it's fine," says a voice. She pauses. _I've heard that voice before._

She looks behind her and finds herself staring into a pair of soft brown eyes.

"Hi," says the man, who's also frozen.

She swallows, and picks up a few more papers. "Hi," she mutters, feeling her face beginning to flush. _Oh my god, he's cute. He's really cute. Stop being so stupid, Molly._

"Sorry…" she mumbles again, scooping up the pile into her arms and handing them over. The man chuckles, embarrassed and flustered, still crouching over in his v-neck t-shirt and skinny jeans.

"No, it was my bad," he murmurs, looking up and meeting her eyes and laughing a little again. "I'll just… here, I'll…"

"No, here, let me…"

When they've both picked up all the papers, they stand up in tandem. Molly gets a good look at him and oh god she can feel her face getting pink as she hands him her stack. He holds all the papers in lean, pale arms that remind her just the littlest bit of – _you're such an idiot, Molly._

"Um," she says, because she's not good at this at all.

"Hi," the man says again.

"Hi," she giggles in response. She coughs awkwardly.

"I should… thanks," he says, gesturing down the hallway.

"No problem," Molly answers.

He opens his mouth to speak again, but a piercing yell rings down the hallway for everyone to hear:

"HOOPER!"

Molly's heart jerks as she turns on her heels and looks down the hospital hallway. Mr. Dailey is sticking his balding head out of her room, the door ajar. She feels her palms beginning to grow sweaty.

"Get _in_ here!" he yells, and she manages to spare a glance over her shoulder while she runs down the hallway – but the man with the paper stack is already gone.

•••

John scoffs, feeling a tad too pretentious as he does so. "Not much of a theater, is it?"

"Mm, no," Sherlock agrees, walking briskly back and forth to hid his slight shivering. John watches him. He stopped trying to give the coat back a few blocks ago after several failed attempts – bloody hell, the man can be determined when he wants to be.

John shakes his head, and looks back at the Uptown Theater. "Bit shabby," he comments, stepping forward towards the door. Instantly, he's hit with a wave of warmth, seeming to emanate from the cracks in the hinges; it tingles every bit of him, akin to the opening of the door to a car that's been sitting in the sun for too long.

"My god," he mutters, stepping back. "Sherlock, the warmth… it's here, too. Coming from inside."

Sherlock creases his brow, and starts to walk around the side of the building. John follows, but they're not even around the corner before Sherlock's phone starts ringing.

He picks it out of his pocket as if it's a dead rat – which, knowing Sherlock, might not be too far fetched a thing to theorize about finding in his trouser pockets – and slowly presses the talk key.

"What?" he mutters.

Someone's talking on the other end – only a moment passes before Sherlock's face transforms. It looks as though he's being lit from within, as if the furthest reaches of his face are waking up; that little smile starts to creep across his face, sliding up his right cheek into a perfectly sideways smirk, and it's _that_ smirk, the one that even now is injecting little bits of adrenaline into John's blood. The chase, whatever it is, is beginning.

"Come as quickly as you can," Sherlock says, and he hangs up the mobile. He starts around the building again, moving more quickly than before.

"What is it? Who was that?" John runs a bit to keep up with him.

"Molly," Sherlock says, grinning. "It's the bodies, Hamilton and Mason."

"So… what about them?"

Sherlock looks over his shoulder, the gleam in his eye shining brighter than the streetlights around them. "They've been stolen," he grins, turning into the darkness and out of sight.

•••

Molly's hands are shaking when she pulls on her coat and hat. It's got pom-poms on it, a gift from her mother – not exactly the type of thing to wear to a potential crime scene, but it is really cold outside.

She swallows, and starts to walk down the hallway. All the years she's known Sherlock, helping here and there with the bodies, and this is the first time she's ever stepped into the fray. It's exhilarating, and terrifying all at once.

She turns a corner, and stops just before she runs into someone. She gasps, shakes herself, and looks up. Her breath hitches.

"Oh, um, hi," says the man.

She can feel her face growing hot. "Hello."

"I, um, was looking for you," he says nervously. "I… er, I've… seen you around? I'm new here, and…"

"Oh!" Molly remembers – she _has_ seen him around, just around the hospital and sometimes in the morgue. "Yes, I think… I think I've seen you."

"Yeah." He laughs nervously, and gestures to where he came from. "I, um… I've been wanting to talk to you for a while, I…"

Molly's heart quickens. "Oh, um, really?"

He nods. "Yeah, I… you always seemed so nice and I didn't really know anyone, so…"

Molly stand stock still, fingering one of the buttons on her coat. She really should be going – whatever Sherlock's doing, it's most likely very important. Still, all of this… this independence, this – flirting, is this flirting? – is very nice. For god's sake, Sherlock doesn't own her.

"Erm, I just…" he gestures behind himself, like he should be getting somewhere. "You've got a cute nose, you know. I've wanted to say so for a while."

Something inside her flutters. _Oh gosh._

It all comes crashing down when her phones buzzes in her pocket, and she remembers Sherlock waiting for her. She finishes buttoning up her coat.

"Thanks, I've… I've got to go," she mumbles, pushing past him and making her way to the door.

"Wait!" he calls after her. She turns around, and oh wow, he really does look cute standing like that, against the doorframe.

"What?" she asks.

"You're… Molly, right?"

She nods.

He nods back, and turns as if he's going to leave. "I'm Jim, by the way," he says. "I work in IT. See you round sometime?"

She pauses, then nods, and turns and walks out, and she can feel him staring at her as she does so – and she's not entirely sure that's a bad thing.

•••

_Note: There might be a little hiatus until the next chapter, 'cause I'm in a musical and I'm the lead and wow it's really time consuming. So yes. I might not update for a little while, probably three weeks at most. Thanks for reading, everyone!_


	11. Wings

CHAPTER ELEVEN: WINGS

The fire escape is rickety and old – John clings to the railing a bit more than he probably should have. Sherlock, on the other hand, bounds ahead, his light panther-like feet never making a sound on the rattling metal steps.

"Slow down," John mutters, although he knows Sherlock can't hear the words. John sighs, and tries to speed up without making too much noise.

They come to a door near the top of the building. Sherlock peers inside the small, grated window.

"Third floor, decorated hallway with curtained doors," he says after a moment. "Most likely leads to the mezzanine. The lights are on, but I don't see anyone."

He turns around and moves towards where John's standing. John steps out of the way, but Sherlock follows him – its only when the lean, pale hands are on his shoulders that John realizes that Sherlock was aiming for him in the first place.

The hands stay where they are for only a split second – but it feels longer, so much longer – before they drag down to the coat's pockets and start fishing around. John lets the breath he's been holding in slide past his gently clenched teeth.

After a moment of searching, Sherlock pulls out a little black leather bundle. He turns away. John feels the little wisp of air from Sherlock's movement, cool against his cheek. He closes his eyes, and opens them with a shake of his head.

Sherlock's standing with his back turned, preoccupied with the little bundle, which has been opened to reveal Sherlock's rarely-used lock-pick kit. He selects a tool and inserts it into the hole in the door; within a few seconds, there's a click, and Sherlock reaches for the knob. His head turns, until his eyes are fixed on John's.

_Ready?_

John nods, almost imperceptibly. _Ready._

Sherlock turns the knob, opens the door, and they step inside.

•••

Molly can see the theater up ahead – it's far too normal-looking for a crime scene. Then again, she's never exactly been to a crime scene before, so she supposes they could really look like anything.

She pulls out her phone and pulls off her glove. _At the theater,_ she texts. _What now?_

A few seconds later: _Look around the perimeter. Tell me what you see. -SH_

She nods to herself, then looks around to see if anyone saw her do it and jumps a little when she sees a middle-aged couple across the street. _Paranoid,_ she reminds herself, and keeps walking.

A few seconds later, she stops. She stares ahead, trying to figure out if her eyes are playing tricks on her; they're not.

She sends a text, and grips her hands behind her back as she inches forward. She's never been this scared in her entire life, and she's never been this excited.

•••

Sherlock pulls his phone out of his pocket. John watches his face cool into an almost grin and moves closer, trying to get a look at the text on the screen. When he sees it, he sucks in a breath.

_The building is glowing. It looks like it's on fire._

Sherlock puts the phone away and sneaks through the curtained doorway, into the auditorium. John follows. It's small and decrepit, but it's been recently cleaned and it's in usable condition. They creep down the aisle together, ducking into the shadows and looking around as they go.

Suddenly, the stage comes into view. John tries not to make a sound.

He points, looking at Sherlock, and Sherlock nods. Lying on the stage are two figures – no, two bodies – with their arms and legs and wings splayed out.

_Well, we've found them, _John thinks. _But why are they here?_

There are two more figures standing over the bodies, a man and a woman. The woman is very pale skinned and has hair dyed black – and she's wearing dark purple lipstick.

John nudges Sherlock until he glances over. _Lucy Heralds?_ John mouths. Sherlock nods, smirking.

They watch as Lucy walks across the stage to stand over Esmé's body, taking a moment to look down at the frozen face. She turns and says something to the man there, and thanks to the room's spectacular acoustics and John's sensitive ears, he can just make out the exchange.

"Are you sure this will work?" she asks.

The man grins and crosses his arms. "For the money you paid, Miss, it sure will."

She pauses, seeming to hesitate. "It wasn't supposed to take Esmé out. You can put her back in her body, can't you?"

John's jaw slackens and his mouth opens. _What_ did he just hear?

The man nods, smiling maliciously. "Just as easy as I can do yours, Heralds. I've done this many times before."

After a bit, Lucy nods, and lies down next to Hamilton's body. She waits, make a decision, sits up again, and kisses the corpse right on the lips, leaving a dark purple stain there. She lies back down, clenching an unclenching her hands.

The man reaches into his pocket and pulls out something that looks sort of like a dog whistle. He blows into it – immediately, John can feel tendrils of warmth spreading up from the stage.

The room grows silent. They wait.

Suddenly, John sees something dark moving in the corner.

His eyes travel upwards. It's somewhere above the proscenium arch, in the shadows of the railings – but it's big. Big and definitely moving.

Without warning, it dives down towards the stage.

The only thing stopping John from crying out is Sherlock's leather clad hand, clamped over his mouth just barely in time.

John's mind drifts back to when he was a child, and when he used to hide from the anteaters at the zoo. They were so big and blobby looking, but with an awful snout thing and a tongue that sucked up the ants with terrifying malice. What John sees now looks very much like those anteaters, except dark, leathery black, with sixteen glowing green eyes, spikes coming out of its back like a mutant stegosaurus, and with no legs – it's floating over the stage as if it were swimming through the air, and it is the size of a rhinoceros.

Something clicks in his mind, something impossible and terrifying and not anything he wants to think about.

"Vide…" he whispers though Sherlock's glove.

Sherlock takes his hand away and looks over. His eyes are wide with shock, which John finds quite a surprise. "What?" Sherlock mutters.

John shakes his head – it can't be true. "I think… I think it's called a vide," he whispers. "But the vide… aren't supposed to exist… They're not real."

Sherlock stares intently into his eyes. "What _are_ they?"

John struggles to remember. "They're… a fairytale story, fairytale monsters. I don't remember anything about them, just that they're supposed to give you nightmares. But they're like… like unicorns, Sherlock, or leprechauns. They're _not real._"

Sherlock's eyes shift back to the stage. "Fairies aren't real, either," he mutters.

John says nothing, but turns back as well. Something's happening.

The vide (if that's what it really is) shimmers, seeming to disappear, but not completely. As John watches, he decides that it feels vaguely like forgetting something, or falling asleep – but sweat is pouring down his brow from the heat in the room, all of it coming straight off of the monster over the stage.

Within a moment, the vide returns, and it's holding something wrapped in its tongue. It's two small orbs, about the size of a basket ball, connected by one think bridge, each orb with other bridges going off of them – and the entire thing is made purely out of bright, blindingly golden light.

John's eyes blow wide. _The lith._

Whatever this creature is, it can go between dimensions, he realizes. It can move into the dimensional plane of the lith and _interact _with them.

"Impossible," he mutters, gripping the railing before him. "Bloody impossible."

The vide swoops over to the man on the side of the stage, holding out the lith with its long tongue – the man reaches out a hand and grabs it out of the air, as if it were nothing but a large rope. The two golden orbs dangle from each end.

He starts to walk over to the bodies on the floor. John grips the railing harder – whatever's going on, it's wrong, it's so horribly wrong that the deepest pits of his very being are writhing in discomfort. The man on the stage takes one of the golden orbs and begins to extract it from the lith, pulling it apart with his hands, lith strands shredding off, with each passing moment feeling like a rip in John's stomach lining –

There is a crash down below, to the side of the building.

The man stops what he's doing to the lith, to John's immense relief, and puts it down; it floats there in the air, hovering above the bodies. He says something to the vide in a language John can't understand, and runs off quietly and stealthily to see what made the noise.

At long last, John lets his breath out. Sherlock turns to him, complete shock plastered over his face: something John rarely sees, but is far too perturbed to appreciate now. He's panting and he can feel the absence of blood in his face.

"I…" Sherlock begins, speechless: yet another uncommon phenomenon. "What… do you understand what's going on, John?"

John shakes his head, swallowing. "Nope. No. No idea. Do you?"

"No."

John swallows again. "Well, _that's_ a first." He rolls his eyes discreetly.

Sherlock breathes out. "I could be wrong, but I don't really feel like it's the proper time for sarcastic satire."

"Have I called you a pretentious prick yet today?"

The taller man's eyes don't leave the stage, but he smiles through his blood-drained complexion. "Not that I can recall."

"Okay. You're a pretentious prick."

Sherlock smirks. "Well, glad we've got _that_ settled."

John grins through his pounding heartbeat and sweat-dripping brow, and lets his breath out. His pulse is finally beginning to slow when he looks over Sherlock's shoulder and comes face to face with a long tongue and sixteen eyes.

"Sherlock!" he cries, backing away, but it's too late – the vide has already lunged for… for…

_…the space in between us._

John's eyes met Sherlock's as the vide began to contort and shimmer again. John feels a tug in his chest, then a stronger pull, and then the second most painful sensation he's ever experienced.

It feels as though his mind is being turned in on itself and his heart is being ripped out all at once. It feels as though something has torn open his chest and is gnawing up his insides. And all the while… Sherlock.

Sherlock, memories of Sherlock, thoughts of Sherlock, all flashing to the front of his mind and then slowly fading – no, not fading, being ripped apart, chunk by chunk, as if they're being eaten.

_Eaten_.

Despite the agony, John feels the horrible realization dawn on him just as he feels another terrible yank deep within the pit of his gut.

"Sherlock!" he cries, but his voice is choked and strained. He tries again. "Sher…lock!" He can't see his friend through the spots over his eyes, but he screams again. "It's… _eating_… _the lith! _Oh, _god…"_

His words are slurred, like they're being pushed through a meat grinder before they exit his mouth, and he knows they're not any good. His heartbeat is starting to slow and everything in him is being sucked up through a too small straw, and his mind is starting to slip…

_THWACK._

Everything in him unclenches.

He gulps in breath after breath of air as everything rushes back, his organs fitting into their proper places, his mind unfolding and all the chewed up thoughts and memories racing back and putting themselves back together. After a moment, he collapses on the floor.

A few seconds later, he finds the strength to stand and open his eyes.

He finds himself staring at howling vide, flailing in the open air just off of the balcony with green oozing out of two of its eyes, and Molly, standing stock still, holding a green-covered scalpel.

John opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

"Molly…" Sherlock begins, not bothering to hide his surprise. "How did you–"

"I always carry a scalpel around," Molly answers nervously. She glances over at him. "You know. Just in case. You never know."

Sherlock nods slowly, but instantly jumps and pushes Molly to the ground – the charging vide sails over the two of them. Over in the corner, the vide slows and turns, ready for another charge.

"The fire escape!" Sherlock yells; John nods.

"It was… _eating_ it," Molly trembles, shivering where she stands but stumbling down the aisle. "The lith between you two. It was sucking it up like water through a straw…"

Despite his attempts to stay calm, John feels himself heave. He jumps out of the way as the monster charges past again, sailing through the air. He stands, and looks to Sherlock; upon receiving a nod, he runs to the door.

"Look after the bodies," John hears Sherlock saying to Molly behind him. Molly nods, and Sherlock runs to catch up with John, bolting out the curtained door. The vide follows.

Immediately, they both screech to a halt. Standing right in front of them is the man from the stage, looking as ready to run as a deer caught in headlights. After a second, he races away.

"Stop!" Sherlock shouts, as if it's going to do any good. Sherlock and John run after him, and they can both hear the vide sailing along behind them. The man turns a corner and goes through a small door to a set of stairs leading up – the vide crashes into the thin doorframe, unable to follow. After a second of bashing, it turns and glides away. John and Sherlock are already halfway up the stairs.

A door swings shut in front of them, opening to the pale evening sky – the roof. Sherlock bursts through the door, John following immediately afterward, and see the man standing at the edge of the roof only meters away.

Sherlock walks up, panting. "It's no use trying to run," he says. "Just come with us."

After a terrible moment, the man flings his head back and laughs the most awful laugh John's ever heard. He laughs until tears are streaming down his face and his cheeks can't stretch any farther.

Finally, he reduces his mirth to a chuckle, and turns back to the two men. "So this is how it ends, then?" he says, still laughing slightly. "The great Sherlock Holmes. Never would have thought."

Sherlock's hands clench; he steps forwards. "Come. With. Us," he demands.

The man laughs again. "You think I'm gonna let you catch me, Mr. Holmes? No, no. I've heard too much about you, from one person in particular. Did you know you've got a fan, Mr. Holmes?"

"Moriarty, I know," says Sherlock coolly. "Now–"

"Hm, how about _not?_" the man interrupts. He lets out one last blast of a guffaw, and it's as humorless as a funeral march. "Well. Anyway. You know what they say about fairytales."

John only realizes what the man's about to do when he's already tipped over the side of the building and is hurtling towards the ground, off the side where they can't see. his laughter still ringing through the air.

Sherlock freezes, and John closes his eyes, letting his breath sag out of his body and hoping that the small thump he just heard in the distance wasn't what he thought it was. When he opens his eyes again, Sherlock's peering over the side of the building; when he turns back to look at John, his face tells everything. He nods, walking back towards the door. John turns to follow.

Suddenly, a _crash_ rings out from behind them.

John whips around to see a black figure rising into the air from the side of the building, its fourteen-and-a-half eyes glistening in the pale light. It seems to look directly at John before turning around and darting away through the night.

As it turns, John sees something in the grip of its proboscis-tongue: a golden rope with two golden orbs just barely attached.

_The lith._

He runs forward to the edge of the building. "We have to get that back," he says frantically, pointing in the vide's direction as it soars through the sky. "I don't know how, but we've got to."

He turns, almost jumping back when he sees Sherlock's expression. The tall man is staring at him with a look he's never seen on the detective's face – or anyone's face, for that matter – before, and it's deep and determined and very resolute, and the most heartfelt thing he's ever seen.

"Do you trust me?" Sherlock asks.

John opens his mouth, but shuts it and looks at the vide, disappearing into the night. Time is running out. He takes a deep breath, as though he's sucking in the world. "Yes."

"Then take off your coats."

John only pauses for the slightest fraction of a second before stripping off the wool coat and then the nylon jacket, flinging them on the ground with a blind urgency. His exposed wings move gently side to side in the cold breeze.

Sherlock puts his hands on both of his shoulders and stares into his eyes. They flick back and forth, looking for something or trying to convey something, and John feels his chest slowly swelling and his heart slowly filling with dread and the entire exchange only takes less than a second, and then Sherlock uses all of his weight to push John to the side, tipping over and over until he's falling and he keeps falling, because he's gone over the side of the building.

John may have screamed, but he didn't hear it, what with the wind rushing past his ears and his heart pounding through his body and his head. Fear and pure panic burn through his veins and nothing really registers in his mind except the ground approaching faster and faster and it doesn't even really register when he feels a yank throughout his body, not until he looks around and realizes that he simply… isn't falling anymore.

He can feel vibrations thrumming throughout his spine; there's a buzzing behind him, quiet, coming from somewhere near the back of his neck.

His stomach lurches upward and his heart squeezes, hard.

_No. No no no no no no no. _

He's rising higher without meaning to – instinctively, he angles himself and he begins to rise faster, speeding up into the night. His guts clench and panic resurfaces underneath his skin. His fingernails are digging into the heels of his hands, nearly drawing blood.

_NO. Please, god, NO._

He turns and looks down – Sherlock's standing on the rooftop, staring up at him, the widest and most honest smile John's ever seen plastered across every inch of his receding face.

Something bursts in John's chest.

_Oh, god, YES._

John beats his wings faster, turning until he can see the black dot of the vide far ahead. Thankfully, he's much faster than that lumbering anteater. He smirks, and then smiles.

_I can fly. I can bloody fly._

_Thank god._

Without another thought, he shoots forward through the sky, his wings screaming with relief in their newfound freedom. The frigid night air and the harsh winds whipping against his face greet him like an old friend; the adrenaline courses through his veins with every pump of his swelling heart. Everything inside him has been aching for this for the past three years of denial and longing and pain; all of it releases and spreads like a first breath after near suffocation. He pushes his wings faster and zips through the darkness, closer and closer to the monster ahead, and it feels _so good._

He smiles again, and it's a real smile, and the vide is only a meter away.

John reaches into his pocket and pulls out his old army gun, trusty as ever, aiming straight where he knows it will hurt. After a moment more than usual – it's considerably harder to aim correctly when flying at top speed – he pulls the trigger, and the bullet buries itself deep within the vide's biggest eyeball.

Letting out a screech, the vide drops the lith into the grasp of the dark and cold sky. John darts under and grasps it, his hands instantly warming like those of a daring child at a campfire who went too close to the flame. Above him, the vide writhes and starts to shimmer and fade. Within a moment or so, it's gone completely.

John looks down at his hands. The lith is sitting there within his fingers, a mass of pure light, bright as the midday sun.

After a second, it flickers. John blinks. It flickers again, and again.

_Oh no,_ he thinks, and he makes a one eighty and begins to frantically search for the theater that he came from. As he does so, he pulls out his phone and dials Sherlock's number, careful to keep a strong grip on the lith with his other hand.

"John?" says Sherlock, picking up. "Where are you? Did you get the lith? Are you alright?"

"Get the bodies outside," John demands. Far off in the distance, he spots the theater, and he starts streaking toward it. The lith flickers more violently in his hand. "We don't have much time. The lith is fading."

"Time for what?" Sherlock asks, taking a moment to relay John's instructions to someone else that John can't name.

"I can save them," John pants, flying as fast as his wings will allow. His back starts to ache with the effort, but the golden light has already gone translucent in his fingers. "They're not dead, they never were dead. I've figured it out."

Sherlock shouts at someone on the other end of the phone line – John can hear him moving around. Wind whips past his ears, blowing his short hair this way and that. "What do you mean?" Sherlock asks.

John takes a breath, sweat dripping down his brow. "That man used the vide to bring the lith into this dimension and steal it. But when a lith is really strong, like this one is, sometime it gets entangled with the person's soul, or the essence of their being, their consciousness." The theater is growing closer – John can see police cars outside, the little blue and red lights little dots on the ground. "So when the vide pulled the lith away, it pulled their souls out with it."

Sherlock says nothing, but John doesn't put down the phone. He starts to descend, diving steeper, down toward the crowd around the bodies he can see lying on the ground of the sidewalk. "Are they ready?" he asks.

"Yes," Sherlock responds.

"Good," John breathes, and folds his wings in and drops like a rock head-first through the sky.

•••

At first, he was just a little pinprick of golden far off in the night. He looked like a star, nothing more. After a while, he grew until he couldn't have been a star, and that's when Lestrade and the others noticed what Sherlock was looking at. The golden dot had grown bigger and closer and closer, until everyone was huddling around Sherlock and the bodies, trying to get a better look at the bright mini sun flying at them through the atmosphere.

Sherlock feels his heart go into his throat as John drops and dives, but it's not because of fear. It's something else entirely, and Sherlock's really not as stupid about these things as he seems to be. He knows _exactly_ what this feeling is, although he doesn't care to admit it.

John comes to a screeching halt somewhere around the height of a second story building, and that's when Sherlock's breath catches. The golden tendrils of light curl around John's body, caught and reflected in every rapid, buzzing flap of John's windowpane wings; he looks for all the world as if he's cradling the sun in his arms. Sherlock can hear the gasps and the stiff, shocked silence of the police officers around him, and Molly's muffled squeak to his side; he hears, but he doesn't _notice _them, because he's far too preoccupied with the surreal and ethereal sight before him.

Sherlock can imagine what all the idiots around him must be seeing: a glowing figure descending from the heavens, majestic and grand and bright as the summer sun on a cloudless day, golden tendrils flying this way and that – angelic enough to make any atheist consider converting. But as he gazes up at the descending near-apparition, Sherlock sees… John, nothing but loyal, determined John, wonderful John, the _true _John – _his_ John – and yes, he knows _exactly_ what this feeling inside him is.

It's a most affectionate sort of pride.

John lands gently, but not too gracefully, with a slight _thud_ on the pavement. His wings fold back inward to their neutral position; he walks quickly over to the two bodies lying on the ground, striding past the stunned men and women who stand in a choked silence around him. By the time he reaches the women, the lith has dulled to the brightness of a cheap flashlight in his arms. Sherlock comes over as he kneels and places one of the orbs in the air near Hamilton, and one just over Mason. He lets go, and the two orbs sink, growing brighter as they dissolve into the women's chests.

A moment passes. Another does as well.

Hamilton is the first to open her eyes and gasp.

•••

John lets out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding in, and wipes the freezing sweat off his brow and back into his damp hair. In another moment, Mason follows the suit of her flatmate, sitting up and grasping Hamilton for support.

John kneels down in front of them as they gasp for air and look wildly about them. When Hamilton meets his eyes, he smiles kindly.

"What…" she gasps, panting. "What…"

"You're alright," he says, nodding. "You're fine, don't worry. We'll explain everything later."

She looks around herself. "Are you… police?"

He nods, and feels a tap on his shoulder. He looks up.

Sherlock looks away immediately, but not before John catches a glimpse of the expression on his face: happy and satisfied and perhaps a bit shocked, but definitely very guilty and worried.

"Erm," Sherlock coughs. He holds his hands behind his back. "That… what you did. That was… good."

After a moment, John stands. He's painfully aware of all the people staring at him, but for once, he doesn't try to pull in his wings – there's no point to it now, everyone's seen them already. He draws himself up to his full height and looks Sherlock square in the eyes.

He pauses, and then draws back and punches Sherlock as hard as he can in the jaw.

Sherlock reels back, clutching his chin, but looking resigned. "I probably deserved–"

"You bastard," John says, and tackles him, wrapping his arms around the man's thin waist and pulling him in, squeezing hard enough to crush bone. When he feels Sherlock's arms encircle his shoulders and his gloved hands brush against the skin of his wings, he relaxes, falling into the warmth and steady rise and fall of Sherlock's coat and chest. He stays that way for what could have been hours, or a second and a half.

"Thank you," he whispers into the man's upturned collar, pressing his nose for a second into his long neck.

Sherlock squeezes his arms a bit, and nods. "I was right," he whispers back. "You could do it, you just needed a push."

"I didn't realize you meant a _literal_ push, you complete madman."

It's the first time he's said the word in a month, but this time he says it with a smile and far more affectionate connotations. He can hear Sherlock taking in a breath to answer, but he hears some commotion and a scream behind them and releases the man, turning to see what's going on.

A few of the police officers have apprehended Lucy Heralds, who apparently tried to sneak past them through the side door. John looks to Sherlock, who nods in response to his silent question: _We've had enough for tonight. We can question her later._

Sherlock goes back to talk with the two women lying on the ground, leaving John standing in a sea of people who are trying to look like they're not staring at him and failing far too miserably to be comical. He swallows, and pulls his wings in tighter. Sherlock doesn't seem to have his jacket – he must have left it on the roof, the bastard.

So John puts his hands behind his back like he usually does, and tries to wander around aimlessly. His method works until he turns and comes face to face with Lestrade.

John freezes, his pulse growing in tempo. He casts his eyes to the ground and Lestrade continues to stare, mouth only ajar in the slightest, eyes completely blank with shock and jawbone clenched and working itself back and forth.

The pause between them seems to stretch into an infinity of horribleness.

John keeps his eyes darting over the ground.

His wings begin to itch.

Lestrade closes his mouth. "You're one of them."

It isn't a statement, it's a question: a need of verification, and for a second, John wonders what would happen if he answered in the negative. Would the events of the past few minutes be erased; would Lestrade simply go back to believing in John's unquestioned humanity; would his wings simply disappear? He ponders this for longer than he should, long enough for the pause to become even more painful than it already was.

He breathes out. "Yes," he says.

Lestrade pauses again. "All this time? Really?"

John nods. "Yeah."

There are other people gathering around them; this conversation is no longer private. John's never felt so _studied_ in his life. Lestrade looks up. "That bloke," he says, slowly – "in Afghanistan. The… fairy bloke, who was shot. That was you, wasn't it?"

John closes his eyes. "Yeah. That was me."

Lestrade purses his lips a little, visibly struggling with his words. "And you're really… you're really a… a fairy? Really?"

John doesn't want to say any more, so he only nods.

Lestrade sucks in a breath and lets it out slowly, raising his eyebrows and widening his eyes. "Well," he says. "That's… well." He clears his throat. "I'd still be up for that pint, if you are."

John looks up, his mouth opening. He sees what Lestrade's trying to say written in the man's urgent eyes, and nods, smiling slowly.

"Yeah," he says. "Maybe once we've got this case all sorted out."

Lestrade nods gratefully and pats him on the shoulder. "Erm. Good. Yeah. You and Sherlock can come in for statements tomorrow, I can see it's been a long day."

"It has been, yes. Thank you." John nods again, and Lestrade walks off. He adjusts his posture, standing up a bit straighter, and trying not to smile. He lets his wings relax, although he's still far too aware of the remaining officers still staring at him. The squeezing of his chest reminds him of that.

Suddenly, there's a hand on his shoulder, and Sherlock's standing next to him. John looks over, and the hand slides off. "Hamilton and Mason are in shock, but they're being taken to the hospital to make sure there's no injury to either of them. I tried talking to Heralds, but she's far too traumatized to say anything useful or even halfway coherent." He looks around. "Did we have any lunch today?"

"No, we were too busy running around London, as per usual."

Sherlock thinks for a moment. "Take-in? From the Thai restaurant down the street?"

"That one with the little duck… things? On the noodles?"

Sherlock nods. "The very same."

"Sounds perfect," John smiles, and starts walking down the street after giving the scene a last once-over and seeing nothing amiss. They only make it a few steps away before he hears a familiar voice behind him:

"Should've known you were one of them."

His heart seizes. Slowly, he turns, only to see Donovan standing with her hip out and her arms crosses, looking more off put than she would probably admit to. She stands up straighter when she meets his eyes.

"They way you hung around freak like that, always looking so _shifty_," she sneered. "I should have known you were a freak yourself."

John's guts are clenching and unclenching, but he's just saved two lives and he's not going to stand there and be taken down by this woman, of all people. He turns around so that he's facing her fully and squares his jaw. "Just shut up," he spits – it doesn't sound nearly as harsh as he wants it to. "If you think your fucking opinion matters bugger-all, then–"

"Don't _talk_ to me, you _maggot!_" she screeches, and John's heart stops.

_Maggot._

He feels as though his insides are imploding. He reaches out and grabs Sherlock's arms to stop himself from collapsing onto the street. Everything is too dark and too bright and too cold all at once and his breaths are too shallow and his lungs are too small.

_Maggot._

Without another word in her direction, John staggers down the street and through the dark, leaning on Sherlock and choking on air.

•••

The cab hits a bump, and John jerks. He looks over at Sherlock, who's been looking at him for the past five minutes. He tries to breathe, and he isn't doing a very good job at it.

He leans over and puts his head on the window. "Maggot," he mumbles. He closes his eyes.

"Hm?" Sherlock leans a bit closer.

"That word," he says again, quietly. "It's what they called be, back in school. For eight years, I was never John. Just Maggot. Always, to everyone. Maggot. Mag for short. Students said it, teachers, parents, everyone. Some people didn't even know my name. I was just… Maggot."

Sherlock pauses for the longest time before replying.

"You were wonderful tonight," he says. He says it quietly.

John looks over. Sherlock's leaning against the other window, looking at him. The expression in his eyes says everything.

John leans in the opposite direction until he's resting on the soft wool of Sherlock's coat, and he turns inwards. He buries his face in his friend's shoulder, and he cries there until the cabbie turns around and announces that they've arrived at 221 Baker Street, and Sherlock tells him he'd better get up, they're home.

** •••**

_Note: Sorry about the hiatus, everyone! Somehow I managed to get this written/edited/updated even though it's tech week and our show starts two days from now and wow I'm really tired. So, um. Here's the chapter. Ta-da._

_So the mystery is solved! ...well, almost completely, anyway. This is one monster of a chappie and I hope y'all enjoyed it. Until next time, my dahlings. Moriarty out._


	12. A Cuppa, a Pint, and Case Closed

CHAPTER TWELVE: A CUPPA, A PINT, AND CASED CLOSED

The jacket had been left on the rooftop. Sherlock had done it on purpose – something he'd never admit to – but is starting to regret it, as he watches John walk from the cab down the block the next day, shivering in the wintery chill.

He thought about offering up his coat again, but he doubts John would accept it a second time. Sherlock is grateful that John covets those jumpers so much, as they do come in handy from time to time. As they make their way down the street, Sherlock can just barely make out the bumps beneath the thick knit, casting tiny shadows that you only could see if you were looking for them. He looks away, closing his eyes for a moment, and opens the door to the New Scotland Yard.

They walk up to Lestrade's office. The people around them are staring more than usual, and most aren't even trying to hide it or be the slightest bit discreet. Sherlock gives all of them glares, but it doesn't do much good. He catches John's eye a few times, and nods – the entire Yard must know about what happened last night by now, which isn't a surprise. Still, every stare and whisper and raised eyebrow and wide eyes that get cast John's way feels like a needle sticking into an exposed nerve – they're the same stares Sherlock gets on a regular basis, the same kind he's been getting his whole life. He glares at a couple of officers pointing from the corner until they back away; he's used to that kind of look by now, but no one should ever, _ever_ look at John like that. The very thought that anyone might treat John Watson the way they treat him makes him sick.

He casts his eyes to the ground, and moves closer to John as they walk.

John's the first to knock on Lestrade's door – Sherlock sees Lestrade look up and nod to them, waving for them to come in. He says hello to John and nods to Sherlock – their usual greeting, if there is a greeting at all – and Sherlock catches him glance more than once at John's back, moving his jaw back and forth and furrowing his brow, opening his mouth as if to say something but never finding the words to speak.

Five minutes later, they're situated in a room with Lestrade and Lucy Heralds. She's not handcuffed, but there are guards at the door and she's far too terrified to try anything. Sherlock sits up straighter as John folds his hands on the table in that way he does. Lestrade leans against the wall in the corner.

Sherlock breathes in. "You were–"

"I didn't _do_ anything!" Lucy screeches. Her voice echoes around the small space in ear-piercing vibrations.

Sherlock takes a moment, the well-timed pause he expertly delivers whenever he wants to make anyone uncomfortable. It seems to work: Lucy squirms in her seat. "You were in the building last night, where the bodies were," he continues, as if he was never interrupted in the first place. "What were you doing there?"

"Nothing!" she squeals again, flinching as if she'd been smacked. "God, _nothing_, why am I even _here_?"

Sherlock sighs. "Miss Heralds, no one appeared to be actually killed during this whole case, so if you really didn't do _anything_ then you've got no reason to be _tight-lipped_." He sits back and lets the words sink in. "Now. What were you doing in that theater?"

She breathes in, and looks at her hands in her lap. She works herself up for a long time before she finally speaks. "They said… he said, it was the perfect place," she says, "-for doing something you don't want anyone else to know about. If you pay them enough, they'll let you use it – the theater, I mean." She swallows, and looks up. "They advertise so no one else will come in while you're… doing it. I paid him and showed up on time…"

Sherlock's head moves back in understanding. "An empty theater," he says, "an empty space for committing any crime you like – just pay them a fee and they'll advertise a phony show, hand over the space for a night, and make sure no one comes in. Is that right?"

Lucy nods. She looks back down. "But… I didn't… I didn't break any laws. I didn't do anything."

"Oh for god's sake!" Lestrade bursts from the corner. Three heads swivel towards him. "Those women were _dead_, of _course_ you bloody did something!"

Sherlock rolls his eyes discreetly and looks back at Lucy. He narrows his gaze down to a laser pinpoint, under which she writhes in her seat.

"Miss Heralds, until we can find out what really happened to those women, we're classifying their state as a trauma-induced coma." He leans back and continues to stare at her. "Unless you tell us the truth, Detective Inspector Lestrade here will hold you for attempted murder, which you'll have to defend yourself against in court. Now. Are you ready to tell us what happened?"

Oh, does she look terrified. Sherlock smirks to himself, in a way so small that no one else can see it. Finally, Lucy breaks.

"I wanted her back," she chokes out, her eyes beginning to water. "I just wanted her back!"

"You wanted Esmé back?" Sherlock finishes.

She nods, bursting into tears.

"So what did you do?" Sherlock pushes, impatient.

She chokes up her tears, but more keep coming. "This… man…" she gets out, finally – "I don't know his name, he just called himself Switch – he said he could help me make her love me again…" She sobs for a moment, then collects herself. "I told him she was in love with Linda. He said that… if I paid enough… he could take Linda's end of the lith…" She paused, and looked up. "The lith is this thing that –"

"I know what it is," Sherlock snaps, waving a hand impatiently. She sniffs and continues, nodding weakly.

"He said…" she wipes her eyes, and looks up. "He said he could take out Linda's end, and put it in me, and Esmé would love me again."

Sherlock leans back, beginning to smirk just the smallest bit – oh this is good, this really is good. "Elegant," he mutters quietly.

"Elegant?" John repeats. He comes over and shakes his head. "No, god, this… bloody insane. _That's… _that's impossible." John looks over at Lucy. "How can he do that?"

She sniffs again. "To get the lith, he used–"

"-the vide," John finishes. He puts his fingers over his eyes and closes his lids. "Oh, yes, of course. Dear god."

"Um, sorry, excuse me," said Lestrade suddenly from the corner – he walks over to where they're crowded around the table. "What the _fuck_ are you all talking about?"

Sherlock looks up at him – his eyes flick over to John, who sighs. "Later, it's a lot to explain," he says. Lestrade nods, and backs away.

Lucy's still trembling in her seat, tears streaming down her face. Sherlock looks her up and down, his flickering eyes just barely landing on every inch of her skin and clothing, alighting for a second and flashing away with a mixture of apathy and slight disgust. _Interesting case, pathetic criminal,_ he thinks to himself. With a sigh, he stands.

"Well, that's everything," he says, flashing Lestrade a faux-grin. "Come along, John."

"Hold on, wait!" calls Lestrade as they're leaving the room. He stands there, looking about as lost and infuriated as a person can look. "What were you even talking about? What am I supposed to do with her?"

Sherlock's eyes flick over to the woman, twisted in her seat to look at him. She's pleading with her face, and that's really just the best – oh, he loves it when they plead.

"Attempted murder and assault," he says simply, smiling humorlessly again. "That's really all you need to know; John will fill you in on the details later. Lock her up, Lestrade, that's really what you do best."

With a swish of his coat, he strides from the room, Oxford shoes clacking on the floor as he goes. The satisfaction of the closed case is almost enough to make him forget the harsh stares and snipped whispers that shoot daggers at John beside him, in the way a heavy dose of morphine in the hospital can almost make you forget you're dying.

•••

John only looks up when he hears the light chink of ceramic on wood. His eyes move up just in time to catch Sherlock's vampirically pale hand lifting up and out of sight, away from where a steaming mug of tea has been placed on the table.

He stares at it for a bit, before turning and looking at the man walking back to his seat with his own mug steamy hot in his hands. "What's this?" he asks, just as Sherlock's sitting down.

"Tea," Sherlock answers, sipping out of his own mug and blowing on it.

"Well, yes, I know it's tea." John thinks, and realizes something. "You're… apologizing, aren't you?"

Sherlock doesn't answer. He sips more tea.

"You are."

Again, Sherlock doesn't answer.

John picks up the mug, holding it in his hands. It's just under scalding – not hot enough to burn your tongue, but just enough to nip – which is exactly how John likes it. He holds it under his nose and lets the tendrils of steam waft into his nostrils; English Breakfast, the expensive kind from Fortnum and Mason. Finally, he takes a little sip.

He stares at the cup, and takes another sip, and another. Just the right amount of cream and sugar – exactly how he always prepares it for himself.

"You know, most people would be more concerned if I threw them off a building," Sherlock remarks from the chair across the room.

John keeps staring at his cup. "Actually, right now I'm more concerned about the fact that you know my exact cream and sugar preferences."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Why? I've made you tea before, and I've seen you prepare it for yourself. Is it really such a surprise that I picked up on that?"

"Well, for someone who didn't know that the Earth goes around the sun, yes."

Sherlock moans, his head rolling back. "Oh, not _that_ again."

"I may or may not have put that in my blog," John comments with a slight grin.

"You haven't written anything in over a month."

"Nice to know you're keeping tabs. I'm writing up the taxi driver case, I'm almost done."

"Oh, god." Sherlock sighs, staring at the ceiling.

"Hey, what happened to the whole apologizing-for-throwing-me-off-a-building thing?" John sips more of his tea. "I sort of liked that."

"You said you weren't concerned about it."

"Yeah, well, that doesn't mean you're not a complete sod."

John waits for the sound of Sherlock's grin, but it doesn't come. He looks up to find the man staring at him with an expression of what can only be worry and guilt.

"I shouldn't have done that," he says. "I wish I hadn't."

John pushes his seat back so he can get a better look at him. "Hold on, no, don't say that," he says. He furrows his brow. "Just because I didn't like it when you shoved me off a roof doesn't mean I'm not glad you did."

Silence, and then Sherlock nods slowly.

John clears his throat and holds his tea with both hands. "It really was pretty rude," he says, "but it was probably the nicest and most thoughtful thing anyone's ever done for me."

Sherlock doesn't respond – John didn't expect him to.

"Thank you," John says.

Finally, Sherlock's eyes flick up and meet his, and he's met with a shockingly heartfelt and caring expression, honest and bared. It's only there for a second, and then gone with the swiftness of a mask being slipped into place. John smiles, and gulps down the rest of his tea.

As he walks out of the room, his wings are held high up, angled toward the ceiling – the highest they've been in ages.

•••

The phone's chirp is almost quiet to go unheard, but luckily, Lestrade is just unoccupied enough to notice it.

He takes it out of his back pocket and hesitates only for a moment when he sees the name. He hits the "answer call" button and holds the mobile to his ear. "Hello?"

"Hi, it's John."

Lestrade clears his throat. "Er, yeah. Hello."

"Is the case all settled?" John asks.

"Yeah, it's… well, for the most part." Lestrade sighs. "Of all the cases I've worked on with Sherlock, I swear this one makes the least sense."

"Well, it's not really stuff you'd know about."

"_You_ knew about it," Lestrade says.

John clears his throat. "Yes. Well. I… learned it all growing up."

Lestrade pauses, awkwardly. He's not sure if he should bring it up or not. "Er. Because of your… because of… er."

"Because I'm a fairy, yes," John says. Lestrade shuts his eyes and breathes out slowly. "You just… tell your kid that sort of stuff, when you're a fairy, because they're not going to learn it anywhere else."

"Mmhm," Lestrade coughs, tapping his foot against the ground. He looks about himself, trying to make sense of anything at all.

John doesn't say anything for a long time.

Lestrade starts to wonder if he should just hang up altogether.

Finally, John clears his throat again. "So," he says, his voice fuzzy and soft through the receiver – "How about that pint?"

•••

"-and he just bloody blew his head at me! Kept telling me, 'I told you so, I bloody told you, young man! I _told_ you were going to fly into a telephone wire one of these days!'" Lestrade laughs, rearing his head back with his eyes shut. John laughs as well, stopping to take a swig of his beer. "God, he never let me live that down. Didn't even _care_ that I didn't get electrocuted, just that he was bloody right."

"My mum was like that," Lestrade says, grinning. "I used to skateboard, when I was a kid. I loved it."

"My sister did, too," John comments. "Actually, I think she still does."

"She would always throw a fit whenever I came home with anything more than a scratch," Lestrade continues. "Then, one day, I broke my arm, and she took away my bloody skateboard. Then it was _my _turn to throw a fit."

John giggles, even though it wasn't really that funny. They're both a bit tipsy, just a little bit, really. Just enough to take the edge off. The past fifteen minutes sort of flew bye once the initial awkwardness wore off and the first gulps of beer were downed. The fairy thing wasn't mentioned until Lestrade asked John why he wasn't wearing his wings out – as hesitantly and awkwardly as humanly possible – and John had answered that he was didn't want to draw attention to himself. After another moment or so, John had told Lestrade the whole truth – that he was afraid – and any apprehension Lestrade had shown in the past slowly ebbed away.

After a moment of silence and gulps of beer, Lestrade sets his glass down with a thud. "Look, John, I'm… I'm sorry," he says. He looks away for a moment and cleared his throat. "When all this started… I had no idea, that it was like this for you."

John coughs and sets his beer down. "It's fine."

"No, it's not fine." Lestrade sighs and looks straight at him. "There was a moment, a week ago, at the end of the case, at the theatre, when you were… _flying_ down from the sky, and I first saw you and I realized… _what_ was going on, what you were…" He closes his eyes and sighs again. "…and I was afraid of you. Afraid, or disgusted, or something. I don't know. Look, the point is… I was stupid. I didn't understand – I mean, I still don't really understand, but I'm working on it – but now I get it. You're still the man I always knew, you're still my mate. And I just wanted to say I'm sorry."

John sits in shocked silence for a long time – finally, a smile begins to warm his face.

He nods, grinning. "Thank you, Greg. That means a lot, it really does."

Lestrade nods in return. "Alright. Good." He picks his glass back up and takes a swig. "Just don't start _glowing_ or something while we're on a case."

John resists the urge to roll his eyes, and laughs instead. "I don't glow."

"You don't?" Lestrade raises an eyebrow. "What _do_ you do?"

"What, isn't flying enough?" John says.

"No, flying's fucking brilliant," Lestrade says. "I just thought fairies would be… you know…"

"Smaller?" John says, smiling into his glass.

"Well, I was going to say more _magical,_ but yeah, I thought they'd be smaller. If they existed at all, I mean."

"I get that a _lot_," John says. "Sometimes people have asked me if I can shrink or something, or if I get smaller under the full moon, that sort of stuff."

"Wait… _can_ you shrink?"

"No," John chuckles.

"Okay, fine, so fairies are big," Lestrade says. He takes a swig. "Then, what _can_ you do?"

"Um, besides flying? Well, nothing, really." John thinks about it for a moment. "Nothing human's can't do if they try. But, I mean… flying's pretty cool."

"Yeah." Lestrade leans back in his seat. "Yeah, I suppose it is."

John smiles, and downs the rest of his beer.

•••

John slips on his pajamas. He pulls up his flannel trousers but decides against a shirt. Instead, he walks to the bathroom, chest bared, and brushes his teeth.

Once his teeth are brushed, he finds himself staring at the mirror. He studies the reflection peering back at him; he needs to shave – probably should get a hair cut soon, too. There's a thin layer of hair covering his fair-sized pectorals; not quite as defined as they were in the army, but his adventures with Sherlock have kept him fit.

A moment passes, and he finds himself turning to get a look at his wings.

He doesn't have to twist that much to see them. Two forewings and two hindwings, sticking out two and a half, maybe three feet. No, two and a half. His eyes wash over the glassy chitin skin, window-panes and black veins. Costal margin, discal cell, pterostigma, radius, media, cubitus – his mind runs through the anatomical names he was made to memorize as a child. He doesn't need to think about them now; the words are as familiar as "hand" or "kneecap."

John runs his hand along his left forewing, letting his fingers bend the chitin slightly as they run across the smooth surface. He lowers his hands and flicks his wings up and out, and again, and again, faster and faster until they've settled into the familiar rhythm that thrums throughout his body like his own heartbeat, and his feet lift off the ground.

He stares at himself in the mirror, a pretty peculiar sight now that he thinks about it – short bloke in his pajama bottoms floating about in his bathroom – and only stops fluttering when his head hits the ceiling and the shock knocks him to the ground. He falls, _hard,_ and collapses in a heap on the tile floor.

When he's shaken himself off, he stands, and walks out of the room. He takes one step into the hallway and freezes. Slowly, he puts his foot down.

His wings start flapping again, gently but hard enough to get him off the ground. Once he's an inch or two above the floor, he angles forward and flies down the hall, up the stairs, into his bedroom and he lands on top of his bed.

John looks around, nods satisfactorily and slowly drifts off to sleep.

•••

Sherlock jumps back when a figure whizzes by him. He stops, looks up the stairs where the figure disappeared, and looks back.

_John_, he thinks to himself, and smiles, walking back to the kitchen and returning to his experiment.

•••

•••

_Note: Wow, wouldja look at that - I _haven't _fallen off the face of the Earth! I'm so sorry for the giant hiatus... I seem to be having a lot of those, sorry! :( If I haven't mentioned before, I am working on an actual non-fanfiction novel, currently called __Mission: Earth__, which takes up most of my writing time. I will try to be better about it in the future, but next week I'm going to a shack in Canada with no internet access and then school starts immediately afterwards... so I don't know how much I'm gonna get done in the future._

_If anyone was wondering, for John's wings I used references from dragonfly wings, generic beetle wings and butterfly wings. I'm not an expert on entemology so I might have gotten some things wrong, but then again I did make up this species so their wings can look like whatever I damn well please. If you're wondering what John's wings look like, don't forget to take a gander at the cover art I linked to on my profile :) Until next time, my dahlings. Moriarty out._


	13. Sober

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: SOBER

Sherlock exits his mind palace with a quick opening of eyes and a drawn out sigh. The morning light is streaming through the windows behind where he lies on the couch – a quick glance at the clock says it's eight fifteen. He looks into the kitchen. John's already fixing himself breakfast – dry cereal and marmite on toast – and putting the kettle on. The golden rays reflect off his hair and his wings and his skin and illuminate the rest of the kitchen. Sherlock blinks, because for a moment John looks like he's glowing. He blinks again and it's gone.

John turns and sees Sherlock sitting up on the couch, and nods in his direction. "Cereal this morning," he says. "Come fix yourself a bowl."

Sherlock sighs and drops his head back onto the pillow.

"Thought you'd say that. Just come to the table, I'll make you some."

"Not interested."

"I know. Now come on, it'll get soggy."

After a torturous moment in silence, Sherlock whips himself up from the couch and stumbles over to the table. John's just sitting down, lifting the toast to his lips and chewing as he stares at Sherlock, waiting. Sherlock grumbles a bit, but sits down and eats.

John raises an eyebrow. "What, no fuss? No argument? You're just going to eat, just like that?"

"Piss off," Sherlock mumbles through a mouthful of cornflakes.

"Nothing short of a bloody miracle, this."

"Unless you want the remains of my liver experiment dumped in your bed sheets, I'd advise you to shut up."

John gives him a look. "Do that and I'm kicking you out of your bed and making you sleep on the couch."

Sherlock scoffs, holding his empty spoon up in his hand. "I'd like to see you try."

"I'd like to see you stop me."

Sherlock narrows his eyes and shoots him daggers, but John only smiles and helps himself to more toast. Sherlock's cereal is getting soggy and his head is pounding with early morning-ness, and his limbs already droop with lethargy. The noise coming from the open window is deafening, and his feet are cold and clammy.

It's times like this that Sherlock wonders how he ever thought he was happy before.

He takes a bit of his cereal. Still edible. He eats the rest.

When he finishes, John takes away his bowl and goes to put the dishes in the washer. Sherlock watches him as he goes, deducing in his head.

"You've got the morning off from the surgery," he remarks.

"Mmhm," John replies.

"But you went shopping yesterday."

"Yes."

Sherlock narrows his eyes and breathes out heavily. "So where are you going now?"

John sighs. "I thought it was time to visit–" he begins, but Sherlock's mind has beaten him to it.

"Your sister?" Sherlock finishes. He makes a face. "Why would you go see _her_?"

John sighs again, walking over from the kitchen. "She's still hiding liquor in her house somewhere. And she… she can't get by on her own for too long that well. She thinks she can, but she can't. I just have to check in on her once in a while."

Sherlock harrumphs, but says nothing. He leans back in his chair and tilts his head back, closing his eyes and pretending to be deep in thought.

John seems to get the message, because the next thing Sherlock knows, there's a hand on his shoulder. "I'll be back by noon," John says; the voice is warm in Sherlock's ear, and the hand stays for a second more, then slides off. John's footsteps echo down the hall and the stairs. The memory of the pressure on Sherlock's shoulder stays imprinted there until he hears the front door slam, and John is gone.

Sherlock's head tilts up, and in a moment he springs from his chair. Noon… that gives him around three hours. Just enough time to finish his experiment before John gets home.

He wonders if John will notice the missing china.

•••

When John arrives at Harry's flat, the first thing he smells is her breath – the reason he notices it is that it's clean. He freezes in the doorway, sniffing for the smell of sweat and stale alcohol, but there's only the stench of sweat. He gives his sister a once over, and there's no doubt about it. She's sober.

"Hullo, kid brother," she says, opening the door and grinning (a tad sarcastically, which is to be expected.) "Here to clear out my cupboards again?"

John pauses for a moment – he hast to be sure that this isn't some kind of joke – before speaking. "Well. Yes… I'm. I'm just here to check up on you."

Harry scowls. "'Check up' my arse," she says as she turns and walks into the flat. "Did always love playing doctor, didn't you? Well, you may be a real doctor now, but you sure as hell aren't mine. 'Check up' my _arse._"

"Right," John says, because he isn't in the mood for arguing. As he walks through her shabby living room, he begins to notice… differences. It's neater, for one. It's not technically _clean_, but at least there aren't dirty tissues and old food lying about the place. The scent of spray-bottle air freshener lingers on the breeze that blows the dust around the room. Some of Harry's treasured rune and spell books are lying open on the couch – another stack of dusty tomes takes up the far corner. A few things are floating about here and there, turning into random objects and occasionally setting themselves on fire. Scorch marks litter the floor, and the smell of sulfur and arsenic still waft around. Even in all of the Harry-esque chaos, things just seem a bit… tidier.

Harry notices his staring, as if she was waiting for him to notice. She stops walking, and comes back over to him, standing in an almost defensive way.

"Problem?" she asks, although John can tell she's trying to provoke him – start a fight. She knows exactly what he's thinking.

Again, he's not in the mood. "No, not at all," he says, and follows her into the bedroom.

He stands in the doorway as Harry walks over to the dresser. She reaches into the top drawer, pulls out a couple of bras – _so that's where she was hiding it, no bloody wonder _– and finally draws out a half empty bottle of hard liquor. He steps forward to take it from her and notices something on the bedside table. His hand freezes in the air.

Words aren't coming to him that well at the moment. "Harry…" he says slowly. He takes a breath and tries again. "Is that… a cosmetics case on your table?"

Harry stiffens considerably. John can tell that she's been waiting for him to notice this, too. "Yeah. Problem?"

"Erm." He looks it over to make sure he's right. "Cosmetics case?"

She corrects her defensive posture. "Yeah?"

"You… don't wear makeup."

"No, I don't," she says, crossing her arms.

He takes another deep breath.

"Harry…" he says, "have you got… a girlfriend?"

She tries to hide the tiny spark in her eyes, but John catches it. "Yeah, I do," she says. She smiles, a little smugly, a little not. "You didn't think I'd spend forever being heartbroken over Clara, did you?"

_Well, yes,_ John thinks, but he doesn't say that. "Harry," he says instead, "you're still in love with her. You _know_ you're still in love with her."

Harry bristles. "Yes, maybe I am, and I always will be, John. That doesn't mean I can't move on and live my life without her."

He sighs and rubs a hand over the nape of his neck. "You can't just pretend you don't love her, Harry."

She narrows her eyes. "What the hell do _you_ know?" she snaps. "You've never lost anyone you loved like that. You never made the love of your life _hate_ you. What do you know about me or my life? And what the _hell_ makes you think you know Clara better than I do?"

He opens his mouth and closes it, and looks at the floor. After a long time, he speaks. "I'm not saying any of that. I just… you can't just spend the rest of your life wishing you had her and pretending you don't."

"Shut _up_, John!" Harry yells, and John notices for the first time how truly upset she is. She balls her hands up into fists. "You think you know everything. You've always thought that. You've been to the army so you think you know the meaning of life and death. You've got a perfect relationship with your perfect boyfriend so you think you know the meaning of love."

John staggers back; he wasn't expecting that. "Harry, we're not…" he begins. Suddenly, he's not sure what to say. _What_ aren't they? What _are_ they? "We're not like that, we're–"

"Right, I forgot," she says snidely, rolling her eyes. "You're not _shagging,_ so it's not a _real_ relationship. God, here you are, bloody lecturing me for finding a girlfriend just because I still haven't gotten over my very recent _divorce_, and you can't even find the balls to admit that you and your bloody best friend are mad for each other! What the hell gives _you_ the right to lecture _me?_"

Harry's words pound through his brain along with the throbbing of his head and his veins. John closes his eyes – the world feels a little like it's spinning. He should probably head home now.

"I'll take this, thank you," he says, picking the bottle up from where he dropped it on the bed. He turns to look at her. "Just… don't get hurt, alright?"

She gives a sharp, humorless laugh in response.

John nods, turns on his heels, and makes his way through the flat and towards the exit. When he's about to reach it, the door slams shut of it's own accord – Harry's footsteps walk up behind him. He doesn't turn around.

"Little brother," she says, her voice sharp and flat. "I heard about that little stunt you pulled two weeks ago. I heard what happened at the theater."

Now, John turns around.

"'Private detectives help rescue two missing women just before miracle "angel" descends from the sky,'" she recites. "People said he was surrounded by golden light, flying with dragonfly wings, and wearing a wool cable knit jumper."

John says nothing.

"Well you've gone and done it, haven't you?" she yells suddenly, slamming the words down onto the old wooden floor – John winces. Harry doesn't. "Have you even _seen_ the papers, John? The internet? People are _noticing, _John, _human_ people_._ They're starting to take a closer look the whole fairy thing, and it's all because you had to goddamn save some girls' souls like the heavenly being you are."

John staggers backwards, falling back against the doorframe. "That's… _no_. But… no, there've been _hundreds_ of stories like these in the papers, no one every believes _those_."

"Yeah, well, those stories didn't have half of Scotland Yard backing them up," she says. "You didn't think _all_ your police pals would stay quiet, did you?"

"I…" John begins, but he doesn't know what to say. His stomach is pooling with dread.

"The forums are in an uproar," Harry says. John recalls her obsession with connecting to other fairies and magically talented people in secret forums over the internet, discussing spells and fairy biology and what the future of their species looks like – of course they'd be going insane over all this. "People have been talking about the Integration for a long time, and now everyone's wondering if it could be starting soon. No one knew for sure, but it's not too long before the humans catch on, and now we're predicting that we'll be fully integrated in less than twenty years." She steps forwards and looks into his eyes, as deeply and as penetrating as she can. "_Twenty years,_ John," she says, her voice growing quieter. "That's within our lifetimes. We may live to see it happen. Do you understand what this means?"

Slowly, John nods. _The Integration._ A word synonymous in every non-human's mind with freedom and equality. People have been talking about it for centuries; when fairies and other non-humans will finally become known to the rest of the world, come out of hiding, and be accepted into society. It's just an idea, and it is very far from happening, no matter what Harry says. John doubts it will happen even within the next hundred years, if ever. At the moment, however, he says nothing.

Harry stares at him for a moment more, then shakes her head. She sighs – long, and drawn out. "So none of your friends at the Yard have told that it's you, have they?"

John thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. "If they had, I'd know about it by now."

Harry pauses. "But everyone there knows about you now, don't they?" she asks. John nods, reluctantly. "And your boyfriend, obviously."

John doesn't bother denying it again. "Of course Sherlock knows. He's known ever since he met me."

Harry whistles through her teeth. "He's known about you all along?" she says, her eyebrows going up. "And he doesn't care?"

"No," John says firmly. He doesn't know why, but it feels as though he's somehow _defending_ Sherlock by saying so. "He doesn't care if I'm not human or if I can fly or if I've got a witch for a sister. He doesn't care because he's got no reason to. He knows as a person and that's all that matters to him."

"Not for long," Harry snaps. Her words ring out in the flat, over the sound of something bubbling in the corner and a few brooms sweeping up the floor. John doesn't move. "He might feel that way now, but just wait, little brother. Eventually, he'll get tired of the novelty of it and he _will_ want a human. Humans always do."

Anger boils in the pit of John's stomach, along with a sick, queasy feeling. "Dad didn't," he says, standing his ground. "He never saw _Mum_ as a _novelty_, why should Sherlock be any different? What are you even trying to say?"

"I'm trying to say, be careful," Harry answers. She flicks her hand and the door unlocks, swinging open slowly. As John walks out, she calls after him, "–and be ready."

John doesn't answer, and doesn't turn around. He makes his way down the stairs, clutching the bottle of liquor almost hard enough to break it, and leaves.

•••

"Would you like me better if I was human?"

It echoes around the room. The words are out of John's mouth before he even knew they had been conceived – pulled from his lips with a will of their own, and now the question is hanging there in the air like a dead moth swinging on a spider web.

Sherlock looks up in surprise. John does, too. They stare at each other for a moment, dragged on and on by the beating of John's heart. Sherlock furrows his brow.

"Don't be ridiculous," he answers, and returns to his laptop.

John tilts his head, takes a breath, and purses his lips.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks.

"It means you're being ridiculous."

"Please just answer the question, Sherlock."

Sherlock peers at him over his laptop. He's curled up on the couch in his blue nightgown, his hair a mess. He sighs. "John, I do wonder how many times I'm going to have to repeat myself before the message finally gets through. I couldn't care less if you were human or fairy or something else entirely. Now stop trying to convince yourself otherwise, and please stop asking stupid questions."

Sherlock looks back down, and John stares at the floor. After a while, he speaks again.

"Would you like me less as a human?" he asks.

"Yes," Sherlock answers.

John's mind staggers backward. "I," he says, unsure of what to follow that with. "I… what?"

Sherlock sighs. "Yes, because if you weren't a fairy, you wouldn't have gotten shot while you were in the army, you wouldn't have been consequently discharged, you wouldn't have returned to London at the exact time that you did, wouldn't have come across Bill Murray at the exact moment that you did, and I never would have met you in the first place. Therefore, I wouldn't like you at all, seeing as I wouldn't even know you." He rolls his eyes and gives John a withering look. "I told you to stop asking stupid questions."

John freezes, and then smiles, and continues smiling until laughter bubbles up inside him and spills from his grin. He laughs until he has to grab the arms of his chair to steady himself, and when he's finally done laughing there are tears in his eyes and he looks over at the couch and Sherlock's staring at him as though he's gone mad.

"Are you feeling alright?" Sherlock asks, which only sends John off again.

"Bloody perfect," John giggles, wiping away a tear.

"It's something Harry said, isn't it?"

John doesn't answer. He can hardly breathe.

"She did say something, didn't she."

More laughter.

"She told you I'd leave you."

With that, John stops laughing. He chokes on the air coming up his throat, which is suddenly closing up. He looks over at Sherlock.

Sherlock stares at him, as meaningfully as he can. "John, if I was going to leave you, I'd have done it already," he says. After a pause, he smiles. "Besides, if I did leave, who would force me to eat and yell at me about the china?"

A long moment of silence, and John falls back into the mirth, Sherlock following after, laughter fogging up the room and drifting out the open window. John clings to the side of his chair – Sherlock sprawls out on the couch, head reeling backwards with guffaws. They laugh until they can't anymore, until their breathing is shallow and desperate and they both lie there, staring at one another in absurdity and the aftermath of hilarity, letting the tears drip down their cheeks and the smiles remain on their faces. It's long, wonderfully long, before John remembers something.

"Wait, hold on," he says, furrowing his brow. "'Yell at you about the china?' What the bloody hell did you do to the china?"

Sherlock closes his eyes and turns into the couch, dread piling up in his stomach, but the ghost of the smile remains on his skin.

•••

_Note: Hey, wow, guys! So sorry about the hiatus. School just started and I've been hella busy and stressed and unfortunately, writing fanfiction does come after things like family and schoolwork on the priorities list. I'm going to make updates less frequent in the future - instead of once a week, I'm gonna do once every two weeks. It'll be a bit more manageable for me in the school year._

_So yup, that's it! As always, I cannot stress how much reviews are appreciated. It doesn't even matter if you have something interesting to say - a simple "Good chapter" or "I liked it," makes my day so much better. :)_


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